Gray Rebellion
by Lightning Ougi
Summary: [A Kirigakure story] Rising against leaders, only to be brought down, and chased out. But they will always be fighting. Mist Shinobi may suffer as they live, but they choose how they die. A story about Momochi Zabuza, Hoshigaki Kisame, and Kurosuki Raiga.
1. Graduation, Slight Escape

Gray Rebellion

A Kirigakure Story

_-Disclaimer: These characters and this series belong to Kishimoto and the producers and distributors involved.- _

Prologue

Graduation, Slight Escape.

* * *

The small group of children had been lined up out in the misty, swampy field, a handful total. The head count placed them at fifteen. It was a small crop this year, but it had been even more painfully low last year. 

Last year, no one was to become a genin.

In the line, it was a various group. Most were young and perhaps unprepared fledglings. They were graduated in the hurry and the attempt to have something to show for the year.

However, two young students stood out.

They had experience, and much to show for earning their marks.

The first of which stood a small amount higher then most of the runts.

His, as fourteen of the graduates were male, face was struck by the most out of place of features.

Emotion. It, to a dizzying extreme, separated him from the rest.

It was a deep hatred across his young features. A mindless, livid hatred.

It hung in his veins and traveled throughout his body.

The boy wouldn't soon forget what had been done to him. Oh no, He had been struck much too deeply to forgive anyone now.

"Kurosuki." His clan name was called out, and grudgingly he walked forward.

The stout framed proctor thrust forth the parcel of metal plate and cloth, the insignia on which gleamed.

In a forced respectful pause, the newly risen genin glared down his own features, reflected to him on the polished surface.

His vibrant azure eyes, unmatched in his village, shone his disdain straight back at him.

Finally, he reached out and took the item, marking his breaking in to the title of a 'true shinobi'.

He sulked to his previous spot before lining back up, to wait for the graduation to complete.

"Momochi." Another, much less well known clan name was called.

The boy who approached this time was wearing noticeably poor quality clothing. This was unusual, considering how important of an event it was. Most parents would at least make an attempt to have their 'prized' child look well.

There was a definite lacking of expression on his face, but there was a confident air about him.

A longstanding triumph that he was just now claiming.

His fingers looped around and greedily took the object of his graduation. His return to the lines was a short one, bordering on a strut.

He stood aside from the boy of the Kurosuki clan, with the vivid eyes fringed by his wild, sholder length hair.

"Momochi, eh?" Spoke the elder of the newly graduated.

His statement was a half whisper, to not be noticed by the jounin holding the event.

However, the softness lingered in the air, and fell, before it could be noticed by the boy in question.

After a long time waiting, the elder genin realized he was being ignored.

"As in, Momochi Zabuza, correct?"

This question, being much more firm, almost with an edge, finally reached the other.

"Yeah. That's me. What? What do you want?"

The young Momochi's hair was spiked up, a shade of dark brown. His eyes were narrow, and as pointed as his perpetual scowl.

Blue eyes blinked at him, and the younger was, for a moment, thrown off.

A smile cracked over large lips that seemed to take up quite an amount of the Kurosuki boy's face.

"You're the one everyone's been talking about." A cruel excitement hung in his voice. "The one the other villages cringe when they hear about. Momochi Zabuza, the orphan out of nowhere."

A long pause, and the vibrant smile spread, almost devilishly. Before them, the jounin called out "Kaguya!" and another student went forward to accept his forehead protector.

"The one who went in and killed every other student on the day after final exam last year."

A look of harsh pride carried across Zabuza's eyes.

"Everyone's been talking about me, huh?" He gave a quick nod. "Perfect."

Another silence came, and Zabuza noticed the other boy seemed to be waiting for something.

"And then you're from the Kurosuki, then?" A nod from his companion confirmed this. "Yeah. I know you. You're the one who just came in this year, a year late for your age. You didn't study or anything. You just came in, took the test, and everyone thinks you're good enough to be a genin."

The grin on the older boy's face visibly faltered at the dry tones of the Momochi child.

"My name is Kurosuki Raiga. I was being taught by my own clan for two years, before going to the Academy."

His statement was greeted by a bored shrug from his companion, and this angered Raiga further.

A split second, and he seemed to fume, but the teal haired genin settled down, and the smile was back.

"But you know, I guess it's really a good thing."

"Yeah?"

"If I hadn't been trained by my family, I would have been in the Academy the same time you showed up."

A sudden realization came across Zabuza, and he gave a twisted sneer.

"And if that'd had happened…" Raiga continued, "One of us would be dead."

At that moment, both of the boys spoke at once, the exact same words.

"_And it would have been you_."

Both pairs of eyes widened slightly, only to clear out, as Zabuza regained his usual unemotional self, and Raiga found himself grinning once more.

Before either of them could say anything more the lead jounin called out to the small crowd of children.

"That concludes the graduation ceremony. New members of Mist village's Shinobi, you are dismissed."

The two boys exchanged looks, of future rivalry and contempt, before they both streaked off in opposite directions.

The field was left, grayed by mist, and empty.


	2. Rice Crackers

Prologue, Chapter Two

Rice Crackers

* * *

It was Tuesday. 

Today was the day that mattered.

Although, normally, to other human beings in other human places, such a day would not be of much importance.

But to the ragged, filthy group that lined up, backs against the stone building, Monday and Wednesday were forgotten because what mattered was Tuesday.

Momochi Zabuza was not one of the children who lined up against the wall, stiffly like soldiers, eyes expectant on the street.

He merely watched the other children, squatting in the alley, in the shadows, like a deserter.

Finally, the sound the dishevelled group was waiting for filled the air. The low squeak of a wooden cart's wheels, as it trudged along in the muddy street.

The stone-like hold the children had dissolved as they all leaned forward, to peer out into the mist.

He found himself raising his head, looking out after them.

The cart man had finally arrived.

A disdainful huff came from the shop owner, who had just stepped outside around back to await his new shipment... of rice senbei.

Simple packets of the crackers filled the cart, and the man, continued along before coming to a stop before the shop master.

The shop's owner was a quiet man who had just gotten out of bed, evident by the gray stubble on his chin. He had thrown on an apron over what looked like his nightwear. But as the man looked over the ingrates (as Zabuza was certain that's what he thought of them), his tired expression faded away to something unfathomable.

The cart man was seemingly oblivious to the expression, for he unloaded and heaved out the crunchy, wrapped packets and thrust them forth, into the arms of the shop's keeper.

Business was considered finished.

After a brief hesitation, the shopkeeper took a step or two back, gaze travelling from the cart's tender to the children, who had returned to their stiff alignment, back against the mildewing building.

The drowsy, unshaven man shook his head, and drew back inside, back into the comfort of his home.

Silence, and the children regarded the cart and its contents, rather then the one manning it, with wide eyes.

The expected movements came, as the lone adult turned to his wares and began opening up a container of the crackers. He slit open the plastic wrapping, and fished out the individually wrapped sets of four.

When he had turned around, the group of brats were already waiting, watching him, expectantly.

The ritual went on in silence. The kids never talked to him. He never communicated with the children.

These little rice crackers, wrapped in dried seaweed, were the orphan's only reliable food source.

The rest of the week, they fended for themselves, but this was why Tuesday mattered.

Dissolving, the group went their separate ways. One girl held two cracker sets, 'nobly' reserving one for her older sister who supposedly had broken her leg and couldn't move to wait with the others. Or at least, that's what she had convinced the man.

Zabuza had watched the sister die of a wound's infection a month ago. But even that fact mattered little, for she, having no means to defend herself from the elder children, would probably have the other packet stolen anyways.

The alleyway behind the store was almost empty, containing only the Momochi boy, and the cart's owner.

The man was aware of his presence, and he was staring at the grudged form, in the corner of the street's end.

A packet crinkled as it skid on the ground, over to his position. It nudged longingly at his ankle.

The boy's stomach instantly faltered, and his resolve weakened in that instant.

I don't need it. He chanted inwardly.

He rose to his feet, standing in his old, frayed sandals.

Let the birds eat it. They'll eat anything.

He narrowed his eyes at the cart's keeper.

Abruptly, he turned his back, and began walking out of the alley way.

It mattered little to the man, who absorbed the glare with a slight confusion, nothing more.

Zabuza heard the cart wheels squeak again, and his resolve buckled once more.

His sandals pinched his feet, they had caused the skin to rub red, and he was sick of lowering himself to such trash.

With a feverish movement, he brought his foot against his knee, and tore the offending bit of cloth--not fit to be seen as a shoe--off. Its brother followed quickly after.

Now bare feet ran across the stone streets, toes digging in the mud and grime as he bounded, not even bothering to follow the weak attempt at a sidewalk.

In a blur, the children like him were returning to their hiding spots. They sheltered inside abandoned stores. They lingered around shop fronts, looking to sneak a steal from an unsuspecting passerby.

These were the orphan's streets. Now he was running away from the centre of the village.

Where the streets became dirtier.

The inhabitants, crueller.

And often, more often then not, one could find a body rotting in the street, stripped of all valuables.

At least the orphan's streets were spared that indecency.

People could expect to travel to here, the utter filth of the town, to die.

His stomach was screaming at him, but he ignored it. He would prove it to himself.

He didn't need it. Tuesday no longer mattered.

* * *

_A/N, This Chapter was originally quite long. Therefore I have split it up into two parts. The second part will once again feature Zabuza._


	3. A Lacking Existence

Prologue, Chapter Three

A Lacking Existance

* * *

His bare foot struck something sharp, and a shooting pain made him trip. 

He landed hard in a collection of food and paper garbage, near a drain. A barely wrapped body lay collapsed next to where he had fallen. Sight blurring, he allowed himself moments to breathe, but choked upon the fumes of the disgusting waste, and of the swollen body.

Hurriedly, he pushed himself to his knees, and shook his head before looking down on the peculiar corpse.

It was strange, because it had surely been dead for a while... but no one had taken its belongings.

He looked over his shoulder, and saw a gleam of a blade.

Once again he pulled his foot up to his knee, and saw an ugly red line out in the dirty skin. Blood oozed out, and pain made him grimace.

Great. Now another thing he had to ignore.

But something... made him freeze. The glint he had seen, it stood out so readily against the street. It... He reached out, and touched it, to confirm what was before him.

It was a kunai. Or at least, that's what they seemed to be called. It was longer up close then how he'd imagined them... He looped his fingers around the handle and found it also a fair amount lighter then he had imagined. Quickly, he pointed it downwards, and took to wiping the muck off of its surface.

He had long been aware of the Shinobi. This was their village, after all, a hidden village.

And long had he envied those Shinobi. They were well off. Lived better.

They weren't helpless.

He ran his thumb over the edge, as his mind worked itself into fervour.

They did not sleep on the streets.

They did not wait in alleys for senbei.

They had goals; they had means to achieve them.

They had purposes.

"Kid. You're going to hurt yourself if you keep playing with weapons. Kunai aren't toys, and I promise that you won't get any fair amount of money for them."

Jerking his head up, he found himself face to face with yet another adult, who had stooped over to speak nearer to his current level.

There was laughter in the man's voice, and contempt on his face, along with a crisscrossing series of pale scars that marred his nose and lips.

The same disdain the shop owner had given the kids. Zabuza loathed that look.

Defiantly, he gripped the weapon's handle tighter, demanding that such disobedience be respected. The man noticed this, and the amusement in his voice passed over to his expression. Shinobi moved faster then one could see. That was what the others of the village said about them. Until this point, Momochi Zabuza always thought that was some sort of myth.

It wasn't.

The view of the slums around him meshed in a great movement, as he was spun around, the arm holding the kunai suddenly pinned behind his back, no longer facing the stranger.

Instead, he stared down at the corpse, seeing a blotched face, with flies lingering near the nostrils and mouth. It took a while for his mind to finally recognize what had happened.

A twinge of fear stuck him, and he stood still, with shock placed on his features. Such strength... how easily he was controlled...

"You're pretty brave, for the most of the children I've seen. Most go running when they see me. Obviously, you're not nearly as perceptive as they are, or perhaps you're a bit more carefree when it comes to your life."

His spine was slowly beginning to arch under the grown man's grip.

"You're the one who killed the--?"

A snort from his captor, and he was abruptly released.

"Your foot's bleeding. Dumb kid. I told you you'd hurt yourself if you played with kunai." The Kirigakure shinobi shook his head softly. There was still the lightest bit of a smile on his face. It was odd. With all the scars he had, it reminded Zabuza of a torn canvas stretching when he smiled.

He looked down at his free hand. Inklings of bruises were appearing on his wrist, but the kunai in question had yet to be taken from him.

"Teach me how to use it, then. Like a Shinobi." He directed his gaze to lock into the eyes of the elder, trying his hardest resisting the instinct to drop his stare.

The eyes held a certain desperation, and to the boy's question, the Kiri-nin grew stern.

"Heh. For a while there, I thought you were different, kid. But I guess not."

Zabuza's determination faded into a puzzled expression, as he went on.

"Every little kid starts off wanting to be a Shinobi. That's because they have no idea what they're really looking at. Brats, all of them, and I guess you're just another one of them."

Brat...? Why would such a word he'd heard so many times suddenly sting as an insult?

"You're wrong then." He faked his own laugh. "I'm not like them." As if to demonstrate, he twirled the weapon in his hand, with a dry sort of grace.

"Well... perhaps you're half right then." The man reached one muscled forearm back behind him, to where a huge knife hung on his back. It was an utterly fascinating weapon. The boy had never so much as imagined a sword like that. It was almost taller then its wielder and the man was of a fair height to begin with. The metal was dark in colour, yet reflective, giving it the makings of some sinister mirror. Almost affectionately, the man stroked his fingers over the lengthy handle of it, before turning his attention back to the younger being in front of him. "Most brats that I've seen happen to be from fair families. You live on the street, and you'll die on the street, and I doubt anyone's going to care that you'd ever existed."

A sudden... cold feeling crept over him. Denial came first, a voice in his head, shouting down this ninja's words. But even that heated anger faded into the cool feeling. His gaze dropped down, to peer sightlessly at the much covering the stone of the road.

People passed by them, hushed, fearful. They had no faces, in his eyes. The two of them surely had no face in their eyes.

Especially not him. He resigned himself to the shinobi's words.

If he died, it wouldn't affect anyone.

Suddenly, as if driven by a heavy gust of wind, the wicked, unmatchable blade came swinging down, lodging into cracks between stone in front of him. The handle stretched out, but even without the added height it towered over him.

The man placed his hand over a certain area, a half circle, on its dull edge.

"But, then again, brat... there is one thing I suppose I would be willing to teach you."

The child, the orphan, was still staring ahead at his reflected face on the polished metal, transfixed. "What...?" He reached out with his free hand, running a finger over the edge of another hole that was nestled, carved within the actual blade itself.

"It's a certain... technique that I think every member of this village should know. Even brats like you."

Momochi Zabuza stared up at the man, the owner of such a fantastic blade.

If there was anything he himself valued in this world, it was here and now, and it was definitely this sword.

* * *

_A/N, the conclusion of the prologue may be split up into two parts, but either way, the conclusion will address Zabuza's massacre of the Kiri Graduates, and will address a fragment of Raiga's childhood. Kurosuki Raiga's will most likely be completed first._


	4. Broken Vase

Prologue

Chapter Four,

Broken Vase

The bull's-eye target sat, paint peeling, leaning upon against the willow tree that grew near the corner of the porch.

A wild streak of electricity darted towards it, but arced and veered off to disappear into the mist that bordered the property.

A wind-chime traced soft music in the breeze, and a young child's curses echoed out into the morning air.

"Come on. Come on." He almost chanted. Fumbling clumsy hand signs, he launched another identical technique. He squinted his dark eyes in concentration, hoping it would help him work.

His energy boiled up inside of him, and for a while he wrestled it to keep it steady.

A low crackling noise sounded, and small sparks of blue lightning gathered around his hands.

Shouting a name of a petty technique, he directed the lightning bolt outwards, towards the target.

But the electricity was so hard to control.

Either that or he was just poor at controlling things.

A gasp came to his throat, and the blue streak shot off in an abrupt jerk, heading straight back for the house behind him.

The lightning struck viciously at a rectangular flowerpot leaning near one porch corner, taking a large chunk out of it and knocking it down before the technique lost form and faded.

The boy gave a sharp shriek, and hurried over to the piece of ceramic.

It… didn't seem fixable. It still kept its shape, but now there was a big gaping hole at a place where two sides met.

What to do… can't have anyone noticing it's broken… The young boy considered, before placing it back upright against the wood.

He chewed on his full lip, before finally coming up with a solution.

With a small jerk of his hand, he turned the broken part towards the wall, and successfully hid he damage. He smiled, thinking he had gotten away with something… punishable.

"Raiga."

A voice from behind the child, and the boy jumped up and quickly turned around.

"Yes sir." He responded quickly, reaching to push his hair out of his face.

"What are you doing?" A man had entered the clearing. His face was marked by age, and wrinkles clung to his features like cobwebs. His hair, which could have been brown or black in his youth, with flecked with a multitude of gray.

A soft expression of guilt passed over Raiga's face, but he hurried to allow a relaxed air.

"Nothing, sir." The young ninja in training rocked back and forth on his heels, and smiled.

His apparent teacher seemed… unsure. But whatever it was that the senior suspected he put it aside.

"Show me what you have accomplished, then."

The cool blue-gray eyes looked towards the intact target leaning on the tree's trunk, and Raiga gave a nervous shift.

He hadn't struck it once, in three whole hours of practice.

"Well?"

The pause had begun trying the older man's nerves.

Unwilling, Raiga approached the target once more and began making handseals.

He would gaze over his shoulder, at his mentor behind him.

Once more, the child directed his energy. It bubbled in him, resisting his orders, frothing furiously as if it were a heated liquid, and not an ethereal force, as it should be.

Only a miniscule amount was gathered, and the technique failed. His chakra, wasted.

The boy's face flushed with shame, and his mentor lifted his chin in a thoughtful way.

He tried again.

This time, his prideful energy sought to prove itself. It flared, and coiled in his arms, heating the skin.

Tufts of dull teal hair fuzzed up near his ears, as they always did when he was upset.

Suddenly the air was snapping and popping with the sound of loose sparks.

Lightning gathered in his hands, hot to the point of burning. He shouted the technique's name, and thrust his hand forward, sending all the focus he could muster out in the strike.

It was like trying to control a river's movements. It twisted and spun, jerking in rays to only angle off and be sent in another direction entirely.

It shot towards the target, and then reconsidered.

Fighting Raiga's continuous demand, spitting in the face of his need to prove himself, it turned upwards.

It sawed through a tree limb, burning through the point of contact. The branch fell, the black charred section was smoldering, and leaves crumpled on the ground.

"No!" The child cried out in frustration.

His teacher approached him, looking both contented and troubled at the same time.

"That's enough for today."

"No!" Raiga repeated, "I'm not done! I still have chakra left… I'll… I'll hit it next time!"

"Calm yourself, child." The old man placed a withered hand upon the younger's head. "We have something special to attend today."

The Kurosuki member lowered his tense arms, and a wide eyed curiosity took over for a breath. "Something special?" He blinked.

"Put on a black article of clothing. Today, Raiga, we attend a funeral."

The most recent in the line of meetings with the Kurosuki boy's parents had gone on a few days ago.

They were a fairly well off couple, part of an even better off clan.

They had to be, however; otherwise they wouldn't have been able to call upon his services.

He thought of them as the usual party. They couldn't be bothered to train their own child, either that, or they knew of his reputation of training children with a high survival rate.

It was a sobering thing, incomprehensible to other villages.

Parents in the Village of Mist never could get too attached to their children, seeing as there was always a fifty-fifty chance that their precious babe would end up dead.

"Have there been any advances?" They asked, as they had asked every two weeks for the length of the year.

"I'm beginning to reach a conclusion with your son."

The uncertain husband and wife leaned forward, anticipating the news.

He was eager to drop it on them.

"Your son has a pitiful level of chakra control. At this point in time, he can hardly manage a simple replacement. He cannot control his techniques, and he is unable to proficiently use his chakra along with physical attacks."

The boy had long begun toying with his nerves.

They were a well off couple, from a better off clan that had shown its fair share of skilled shinobi.

Whether it was poor breeding, or merely poor luck, this child was not standing up to his clan's name.

The two parents shifted in their seats, silently accepting this bitter news, and gesturing for him to continue.

"And I must admit that the only reason, besides your payment, and out of respect for your lineage," he hastily added the other two factors, so as to ease the harshness of his words, "I am continuing to train your son is the fact that he has both a natural Lightning chakra affinity and that he has an unusually high chakra amount." He folded his hands, and bowed his head to rest his wrinkled brow on his knuckles.

"According to your clan's medical records, this trait has not shown itself on your branch of the family in three generations. Outside of your clan, it is yet rarer, except for in Cloud village. Lightning techniques are, in themselves difficult, simply because controlling and creating that much energy burns through more chakra then other techniques do. Not to mention, keeping something that is meant to only retain its form for a fraction of a second in existence for a hundred times that amount also requires much from the user."

He lifted his head to gaze down at both parents.

"In theory, your son holds promise. In practice, odds are that he will be one to die if he participates in the final examination."

He was not expecting shock, grief, or much sadness at all. He got exactly what he was expecting, and that was the look of dull disappointment on the parents' faces.

"And there is… one other thing." His voice was slow, interrupting the started conversation between the two of the Kurosuki clan.

"Yes?" the husband questioned.

"Your son… does not appear to be emotionally stable."

"Emotionally stable?" The woman echoed. This statement brought a slight shock along her face.

"He is much more emotional then other boys at his age. He does not take well to the decrees of Mist shinobi. Not only that, but he often overreacts towards problems, and I haven't found him thinking clearly, more often then not. He is so easily frustrated, it is clearly inhibiting his training. This, along with the other points I have expressed, lead me to one option."

He took time to take a pause, considering his own words.

"I will take him to a funeral, and place in his mind the concept of death. He will then be subjected to Kirigakure's final examination with another of my students. One he knows. If he lives, he is still worth training. It is as simple as that."


	5. Muted Agony

Prologue, chapter five

Muted Agony

* * *

It wasn't raining, but the sky was a pale gray, the sun smothered by the shapeless clouds. And even if the air did not smell like rain, some of the tears falling seemed to match any desire for it. 

Dressed in black, the funeral's observers reminded the child of some sort of cloud, or other contrasting dark mass on the ground. The man in the coffin, however, stood out like a gem, dressed in white robes.

The boy stood in his own set of robes, flanking the elder who led him.

It was a quiet procession. There were a few vocalized sobs here and there, but the fluttering of clothing drowned most sounds out.

It was silence, and yet there was noise.

The boy's gaze travelled over the guests and the relatives of the deceased, observing emotions, reactions. And the way they clutched at the Buddhist beads in their hands.

"Was this man a bad person, sir?" he finally spoke up, taking his mentor off guard. Hm. Happened more often every day.

The greying man looked around before staring down at the shinobi candidate. "What makes you ask that, Raiga?"

In response, the boy gestured towards a weeping couple. They were talking amongst themselves, softly. Their faces were stained with tears, but they were both smiling.

"They look almost happy that this man is dead..." The Kurosuki child had one eyebrow arched, as if he were contemplating this rather thoroughly.

"No, child. They aren't happy that he is dead."

"Then why are they smiling?" the child prodded further.

Breathing in deeply through his nose, the teacher prepared for what he thought would be a long winded explanation. One, considering the mental capacity of the person he was communing with, that would have to be rather simplified.

"They are smiling because they are remembering the good times they had with that man," he stopped short, only to notice that the boy was paying attention to him. More so then he had ever seen Raiga pay attention to his lessons. "Sometimes that is what you do at a funeral, you try and remember the good things about that person."

It may have been wrong, but the child had a firm image in mind of what a funeral truly was. A small gathering, akin to... almost a birthday celebration. You remembered the person, or tried, and then you have a good cry as you bid them farewell from this world.

To him, the concept of death seemed like a trifle afterthought. After all, the man in the casket seemed more or less alive. Not that he had ever been presented with the idea of religion, but death always struck him with the sense of _going_ somewhere.

The crowd gave a respective silence, as the priest called out the dead man's new name, some old kanji no one really understood, but the sound was pleasing regardless.

"I don't know the man... even though he has a nice face." Raiga's voice was soft, and he was finally smiling. "Maybe one day I can go to a funeral where I have happy memories of the deceased, so then I can cry."

It was not long after that when the boy was faced with the task that would decide his future.

In all honesty, the mentor figure did not expect his 'prized' student to escape alive. He was ready to end his tutoring with that clan. Although it made have been a bit cruel, he sought out one of his more advanced students, a child from some lesser known clans that showed a fair amount of promise in taijutsu. Brutal, yes, but it was what he had in mind. In his pride, he wouldn't call it tampering, but he had convinced himself that his problems would be finished and that was that.

Convincing the second child, the one whose fate was in question...

He had told his student that he would be participating in a fight. Simple as that.

With their respective parents informed of his intentions, he had brought the two children to the edge of the village. It was a swampy area, a clear day, no interference.

On his one side the younger Raiga stood, looking utterly pleased with himself. Across from him stood the other boy, a young member of Kirigakure with dusty blond hair, and wary green eyes.

With a single hand movement, the mentor of the pair signalled them to begin.

In a flicker of mist, he departed, leaving the two boys alone.

* * *

Flailing a kunai, he deflected the other's projectiles noisily, before being forced into a swift retreat. 

There was no way he could fend off attacks like these for long. Eventually, he'd slip up, like he always did, and he'd end up too wounded to fight. His opponent, however, was relentless.

Kunai sought his limbs, and he was forced into a ducking roll, dirtying his clothes as he moved across the muddy ground. Right into the awaiting blow that his sparring partner had prepared. It struck sickeningly in his unguarded stomach, dragging a full gasp from his lungs. Sprawled on his back on the ground, with his hair half in his face, he lay with a heaving chest.

"Okay." Raiga managed to voice through his broken breathing, "You win."

The shinobi candidate standing above him... did not look pleased.

"Idiot..." His opponent reached down, grabbing the front of his shirt and forcing him to his feet. Raiga wobbled, clutching weakly at the other boy's grip. It was only then he noticed the kunai his victor was still holding. He forced his traditional smile, and began a weak, perhaps even fearful plea.

"Look. I said you've won. I'm obviously not good enough—"

"Are you really that stupid?" The sudden outburst from the other cut him off. "Don't tell me you didn't think this would happen. Hasn't anyone told you about the final examination for the shinobi's students? Winning doesn't matter. One of us has to die!"

Die...? But he had been told that it was just a fight. Yes, he had been told of the examination, but he didn't think he would ever participate.

Yes. He had thought of death. Yes. He knew people died, and some of the things that cause it.

But he had never considered he would be one to cause it. He wasn't ready for death. Especially not his own.

He swatted at the hand holding him and jerked back, wrenching a kunai out of his own holster. There was no time for thought now. The Kurosuki boy was struggling against one more powerful then he, and now he realised there was more then just a fight on the line.

His opponent swung the small blade, but he had managed to jerk back enough to avoid it. Sensing an opening, he thrust his own kunai forward. Too slow. Once again he was grabbed, his wrist crushed in the free hand of the other.

Raiga jerked his left hand to catch his own opponent's, to stop the counter attack. They were locked that way, both flailing, both too afraid to release the other.

His opponent was gritting his teeth, and squeezing down to the point that Raiga cried out, senselessly. Finally, it was the Kurosuki that weakened. With a jerk, his kunai was wrenched aside.

Without a weapon, he released his opponent to take a handful of frenzied steps backwards. In his desperation, he began forming the long memorized hand seals.

Recognizing a technique, the other boy brought his kunai forward in a defining thrust. His jaw was set, he was trying to keep himself from screaming.

Straight into the shoulder of his intended target.

Raiga felt the wet of the blood drawn before he felt the splitting agony that threatened to overtake him. His drawn breath felt like it was ripping his throat to ribbons. It... was incomparable to anything he had ever felt. There was no blocking it out. There was nothing except his mind wailing for it to stop and the bubbling hot chakra that seemed for once in his life ready to obey him.

The blond clutched Raiga's shoulder with one hand, digging the wedge blade in further.

As their eyes met... The Kurosuki noticed the other boy was crying.

The lightning in his hand did not come as it had long before, with soft snappings and crackles mimicking a severed wire. It came with a high pitched screech, so quickly. Its target had no time to react when it forced its way into life.

In the final, fatal second, Raiga forced his hand forward, pressing the lightning against the fabric covering the older boy's stomach.

There was no need to aim, to attempt to control it. At this range, nothing mattered. And for a moment, he was blind, seeing nothing but the blue-white electricity as it streaked off into the trees behind the body pressed against his. He tried not to think about it, the heat of the lightning that seemed like it could burn a hole straight through you. He tried not to think of the other boy, whose grip on him had faltered.

The hand on the kunai fell, and Raiga felt the weight of the other boy against him.

There was blood on his hands. There was blood running down his chest.

He gave a brief cry, and shoved the body away from him.

There was no doubt in him. His... that other boy, he had known him. And he had killed him. There was no doubt in him that he was dead.

He didn't want to look at his body. He didn't want to look at the gaping hole in his stomach that he had caused. But he did see it. He couldn't look away.

His stomach was twisting itself into knots, building in agony. The feeling of sick travelled out from the pit of his chest, mingling with the throbbing pain from his fresh wound, pressing at his throat. His every breath was a battle against this feeling of sick, as if hot disease was escaping his lungs.

Flinging himself against the ground, away from the horrible sight, he collapsed. He was a bundle of shaking limbs.

He was sobbing, blankly. The only sound coming out of his mouth was a wail. Soft little wails that seemed to have no end. He didn't notice as his teacher returned the same way he had left. He couldn't see the look of surprise on the old man's face.

There was only his own voice, still wishing for the pain to stop.

There was silence, and yet there was noise.

* * *

When he finally gained the energy to talk again, his throat was hoarse. And he wobbled as he pushed himself up to a kneeling position. 

"Sir." The single syllable was so quiet.

"You are wounded, Raiga. You need to be tended to." His teacher reached for his arm. Losing his resolve, the child gave another weak cry, and jerked himself away, nearly falling to the ground once more. The elder man gave a sort of puzzled look in response.

"Will..." the teal haired child's voice quavered as he spoke up, "will we be able to have his funeral, sir?"

He had been lied to. He had not known he would have to kill anyone. He was not told he would have to bleed. Searching for someone, anyone to blame, he sought out his mentor. It was his fault.

"No, Raiga. When Shinobi die, they have no funeral. They leave the world as they had lived in it, without notice." Speaking gravely, the elder seemed to age even beyond his own years.

Wet, hot tears dribbled down the boy's face, leaking from his squeezed shut eyes. "I knew him." He whispered, "If even for a little bit, I knew him. He had a nice face. He fought wonderfully." Sobs overtaking him, the boy bowed over forward, and allowed himself to cry.

People like him were not meant to be Shinobi. People like him needed funerals.

* * *

_A/N The next chapter will be the final part of the character's past, and the end of the 'prologue' series. It will be about Zabuza, and his assualt on the genin of the Mist._


	6. Finality

Prologue Chapter Six

Finality

* * *

On the outskirts of town, he sat dully, looking forward to admire his handiwork. Across from him stood the tree, the target. Looking like the victim of an animal attack, the poorly chalked circle upon the wood was barely visible from the scores upon scores of scratches and scars. 

He was tired, despite what little effort his practice involved. A simple twist of the arm, to toss the metal weapon. Hit the tree, or don't.

He had begun by counting his hits and misses. But soon the numbers faded into nothing. At first, he had simply forgotten. Was it miss number twenty, or miss number twenty one. He always assumed it the lesser number for the misses, and the higher number for the hits. But after thirty minutes of having to guess, he had stopped counting. He could now register his accuracy at about a three to one hit-miss ratio, but as for the actual numbers? The meaning was simply lost.

With a slick, casual twirl of his hand, he spun the weapon in question. Previously he had feared that after such use the edges would have dulled. Such trifles were unfounded, however, as the kunai was actually quite durable. Remarkable, really. After an extended use, it was still as sharp as when it had accidentally cut into his foot.

Hah. Had it really been that long? Two months ago when that stranger shinobi found the young Zabuza in the lowliest of streets?

"Let's start with the basics. To use these techniques, you need chakra." The middle aged man paused, waiting for some question urging him to continue. There was none so he prodded along.

"Chakra is energy, made from both your toned physical abilities and your spiritual energy coming from meditation. Judging by these factors, you aren't very powerful, but you should be strong enough for what I am about to teach you. Let me explain how you use chakra."

Hand seals they were called. Some were complicated, some were simple, but they had to be precise. His incompetence at this brought occasionally violent punishment from his would-be mentor.

But eventually he came to memorize them. Within a day's span—as his new teacher only would relent to visit him around an hour at a time—he had the hand movements carved into his mind. But, it really wasn't the tedious memorization that held him back. This... chakra hardly felt like it existed at first. The only confirmations of its presence began as little fluxations that could easily be passed off as flukes.

It was only when the _real_ results occurred that his mentor began taking a true interest in him.

This mist was deep. Thick. Thicker then he had ever seen in the city. It came depending on how he willed it. It could come from the air around him, drawing matter from the water vapour already there that he infused his chakra with. Or, in a much easier fashion, it could come from his skin, developing partially from the water inside his body.

This energy was indeed a splendid force.

His mentor, after Zabuza had demonstrated his first ability to fully draw out the mist, actually stayed with him after the one hour mark. It came as a surprise, but the orphan wasn't quick to let it show.

With a short movement, the man slid his immense sword into the ground, and sat with his back against it. He pulled a flask from a pocket nestled against his pants leg, uncorked it, and took a swig.

"So, kiddo. You proud of yourself?" The man ran a tongue over his lips. The liquid in the flask was of a scent the Momochi child recognized instantly. And it was strong; he could smell it all the way from where he sat, meters away from his companion.

"Yes." He answered, truthfully, without a pause.

"You do realise it means nothing, right?" Setting the flask down next to his seated form, the man wrapped both arms around his knee. The brisk question was answered by silence. Zabuza knew better than engaging him about this. "Yeah, kiddo. I hate to break it to you, but you're one of the nobodies here. No family. No money. Not even a real name. And it's kind of a pity, too. You're a natural at this."

At once, the child's eyes widened. This was the first of any compliment he had heard from his instructor. And it wasn't even of the sour, sarcastic type. "You say I'm a natural, then? And that still means nothing?" He stammered, before being able to stop himself.

Regarding him with the cool gray eyes, the scarred shinobi broke into a hearty laugh. "Kid. If you ain't got a name, ain't got money, there's only one way to get recognized here." This time Zabuza responded with a stare. A mere look that urged the nearly drunken man to continue. Once more, the elder of the two lifted the flask, and raised it high, in a poor mocking of a toast. "Carve yourself a path of blood." Another laugh, and the man downed several noisy swallows of the reeking sake. "The only heroes in Kirigakure are war heroes!" He swung the flask again, in merriment, before corking it and placing it back to its pocket.

In a stunned silence, Zabuza let whatever mist he might have been generating fade. A path of blood? Fanciful notions filled his mind, but he recognized the meaning. Slaughter, murder. Those were the only ways to be recognized? To be heard? His memory drifted back to the sight of the body, lying in the street.

"I—" Before he could speak, the adult shinobi had stood up, and returned the sword to its position on his back.

"Don't worry about it, kid. " As he walked past, his mentor gave him a light pat on the head, his face once again showing its wear and tear as he smiled.

The next day, his instructor returned early, seeking him out of his usual location in the slums. Yet another odd occurrence. He was half lead, half dragged the way back to their appointed training area.

"You know, kid, there are a bunch of other whelps like you training. Actually, they'll be graduating within a week."

"Yeah?"

Giving a useless chuckle, the elder shinobi continued, "I don't think I ever told you, did I? We have a school here. Where brats learn the kind of stuff I've been teaching you." He glanced down at his trainee, "And you know what they have to do to graduate?"

Zabuza gave a noisy sigh. "No," he spoke, bluntly. As if his mentor had ever told him before.

"They have to kill another student. To see if they are capable of living a shinobi's life, they must kill someone they knew, that they lived with." For the first time in front of Zabuza, the middle aged man's expression fell to something besides a cheery smile. It was a wistful expression, a grim look in his stone gray eyes. "That's the kind of thing you're getting yourself into."

Such a dull phrase. The young boy couldn't say anything to that.

But after that brief display of whatever emotion the old man was feeling, he regained his usual composure. Rambling, his teacher went on to describe the academy (which sounded like a real nightmare) and further about its graduation. Whatever outburst or strong memory caused the lapse in his cheery demeanour was forgotten.

That was two days ago. It all trickled down to this.

The academy was a long building, with hardly a decorative accent in sight. There wasn't a playground like at other facilities to raise children, as this was a military establishment. However, there was a very large training area that could be mistaken for one. The kids ate outside from what he could see, as there was a collection of long tables near the southern end of the building. But the tables were empty now. Abandoned and lifeless save for a bit of plastic wrapping being buffeted by the breeze. All the students of the academy were clustered at the front of the building.

He had to be wary, at first, of the elder shinobi. The teachers at the facility would see him. But such fears were lifted as the group of then departed from the flock of students, from what he knew, to assess the final results of the 'final exams'. The graduates would be unprotected.

From him.

There were nearly a hundred of them. The number was enough to make him momentarily falter as he approached. Nearly hundred of them, better trained then he.

There were only three differences in ability between he and then.

One, he was prepared, they weren't. This he considered as he twirled the kunai in his hand.

Two, he had been taught an advanced technique that they didn't know.

And finally, three...

He was doing this for something more important than his life.

The hundred students out there? They would only be fighting for their lives.

He stood, against the wall, and placed his kunai in his teeth. Slowly, but with steady hands, he formed the signs so familiar to him.

The only way to be acknowledged was to carve a path of blood.

The only way to be seen in this village was to show them you could be the killer they wanted.

And he could do it.

Mist fluttered from all around him, growing thick as he pumped chakra from every imaginable part of his body. It swirled in him, and obeyed. He was in perfect concentration as he brought the whole area into the thicker mist. The graduates? They were covered in it. He could hear their sounds of confusion as their sight was killed.

Gripping the kunai once more, he took a last deliberate breath, and dived into the gray nothing.

The first one that came into his sight startled him. It was a girl, and for a span of a gasp their eyes locked.

Without thinking he caught her in the neck with the point of his weapon. He didn't wait to see the blood flow.

The mist was a tangle of confusion, even as he moved through it, striking out at anyone he could see. He saw faces, pasts, futures and fear for that one glimmering moment before he moved to cut them down in any way he could imagine.

Eventually someone screamed. Eventually they realised they were being attacked. And then he had to fight. Through the haze he saw someone, squinting at him. He swung his arm, tossing his kunai. It caught the stranger in the chest. Then he knelt, and picked up more of the weapons from a corpse's holsters. Two in hand, one caught in between gritted teeth, he darted forward.

So many screams. And there was nothing in him. Nothing but exhilaration and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

When the Mist finally cleared—as the returning Jounin were toiling to dispel it—he sat with his knees up to his chest. Breathing into the fabric of his pants.

They said nothing. Not to him, not to each other. But he could detect their shock. Blood was everywhere. His precious kunai? Lost within a sea of others, sticking out of bodies.

And he had no regret.

* * *

"_This is a disaster_." 

"_How could this have happened_?"

"_Who is this kid? Get me information, names_!"

The mission center of the village was in uproar. And it should be, after all, how would they tell so many families—having sighed with relief at their child's survival—that their heirs have died after all? Killed by some nameless kid.

Some kid having only been taught a single technique, starting with a single kunai.

The scarred man leaned against the wall, drinking heavily from his canister.

"So, you take a kid under your wing and he kills the entire graduating class."

Lazily, the man looked over to the flustered chuunin glowering up at him.

"Look." He spoke slowly in a dry half-grin. "I didn't think he would go nuts. I told him about the academy to warn him against this. I didn't know he would—"

"What are we going to tell the families?!" the chuunin demanded.

The punk was annoying him. He was considering telling the busboy off when a moment of clarity reached him. "What's going to happen to the kid?"

* * *

Zabuza had been ushered this way and that, no one had really ever said anything to him. But they stared at him, when they thought he wasn't looking. It was only when his mentor came to take him that he finally saw a familiar face. 

His mentor was drinking again. That was alright with him today.

"So, kiddo. You proud of yourself?" He asked, as they both stood in the center of the village. These streets were clean. No children lurked in the alleys, watching passerbys with starving eyes.

"What's going to happen to me? No one has told me anything." Zabuza no longer had time to play this old man's game.

His teacher seemed to age further as he drank heavily before responding. "I suppose you've done it, kid."

"Yeah?"

"They hate it, but they want you as a shinobi. As soon as the school begins again, you're going to be accepted as a student."

* * *

End Prologue 

_A/N: I formally apologize for the long gap between updates, and also for the subpar potrayal of Zabuza within the chapters. He was hard to write as he was not as developed as his older self and therefore lacked personality._

_And for the information, the mentor in these chapters is an unnamed OC I created to fill a niche. No. I am not going to name him. But he will play another part later in the story, sadly._

_From this chapter forward, the three primary characters will be adults. I hope you will continue to read my story and I thank those of you who have read it and those of you who have kindly reviewed._


	7. Zabuza's two Arrangements

It was coming on at nine in the morning and all of Kirigakure was up and busy. Which was unusual, for this village. It was especially unusual for the man sitting up on the third story balcony of the west section of the housings district, watching the merchants nearby set up shop.

Momochi Zabuza usually slept in till twelve, and then didn't go back to sleep until five in the morning. Not that he couldn't force himself to be a morning person if say, a mission called for it, or there was an important event going on. Like today.

As it turns out, the political ambassadors (read: privileged shinobi) from Konoha were coming, and no one really wanted to be caught slacking off. Honestly, Zabuza couldn't give a damn. That was not the reason he had dragged himself out of bed at nine o'clock in the morning. He had more _important _arrangements to attend to.

Jumping down from the balcony, he landed effortlessly on the pavement below. A startled pedestrian gave a yelp, but he walked past them. The streets were busy; he should have looked before jumping down.

At first he had to push past people to get around through the streets, but after a while people saw him coming (as he was taller then most) and shuffled in their routes to let him through. Shinobi had that sort of appearance. People could tell who you were quickly and stand aside.

A turn down a street, and he found where the procession was being lead.

At their sides were three pairs of Mist nin, acting as escorts. The two Konoha nin in question did not fit Zabuza's idealic vision. They wore no Jounin vests, as he had expected, and nothing besides their partly hidden kunai holsters gave them away as ninjas. He watched their eyes, however, with his typical disdain. He saw the smugness on their faces; this he expected.

Leading the pack was a government worker. Some assistant to a landowner, or whatever, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was assigned to make sure the smucks from Konoha only saw what the government wanted them to see.

And the guy really milked it. All smiles, he led them around, circling them around the troublesome parts of the city, showing them only what looked pleasant. He laughed heartily at the slightest joke he made, drawing polite chuckles from his audience. And somehow, he managed to appear genuine enough not to come off as infuriatingly annoying.

Around them, the people on the street pretended not to be interested, but surely the whole pack of shinobi felt the dozens and dozens of eyes on them.

Giving a snort, he tore his attention away, walking from the group. The streets emptied out as he neared the less pleasant area of the city, occupied now only by the occasional pedestrian late for work and the sleepy bums resting near the trash bins.

Finally the designated restaurant came into view. It was a rundown place. It served stir fried seafood in bright red dishes. Of course, _he_ demanded that they'd meet here.

There were tables out on the patio outside the store. One was occupied.

And sitting there, legs propped up on the table, was the man he had requested to greet.

Hoshigaki Kisame was an unusual looking man. His hair was a navy blue, and his eyes were... fishlike. His most noticeable qualities, of course, would have to be his height-large even by this village's standards-and his gray-blue skin. Leaning up against the chair behind him was a sizable instrument. It was bandaged, for the most part save the handle. It was several feet long... and a weapon of incredible power. Samehada. Kisame was dressed in his black work uniform, with his forehead protector evident on his shoulder.

When he saw Zabuza coming, he stretched his lips back in an enormously toothy grin. Lifting his hand in a half hearted wave, he called out, "You're late."

"No, Hoshigaki, I'm not. I'm right on time."

"You're thirty seconds late. Got caught up watching the Leaf parade?" Lowering his lengthy legs, he kicked a chair back across from him for Zabuza to sit in.

He accepted the offer and slid down into it, shifting into a sitting position with his elbows on the small table. "Looks like I can't put a wall over your eyes, Hoshigaki."

For several moments of quiet anticipation, they both hung silent, each waiting for the other to start talking first. It managed to generate a most stifling pause, until Zabuza finally coughed beneath his bandages.

"So, are you gonna order any food?" Zabuza questioned, leaning back in the thatched chair.

The blue skinned jounin shook his head, "No."

"Then why did you ask to come here?"

Kisame gave a wide shrug."I like the atmosphere around this place." It seemed like a joke, especially when Zabuza looked around at the decaying town around them. "So, Momochi. Why did you ask to see me here? After all, it's a big day for you, getting a shot at being an ANBU squad captain."

Momentarily distracted from his intentions, Zabuza tilted his head to the side, curiously. "You heard about that?"

"Yeah. Pretty lucky situation there. Eve of a high profile mission and captain is called in on a 'political assessment'. So you get to run your squad for a bit to see if you're cut out to be a leader." Tapping his sandals on the ground, Kisame showed a distinctly amused expression on his face. "Good opportunity for you."

"I'm really not concerned about that at the moment. I have bigger things to think about..." Inwardly, Zabuza was swelling with pride that someone like Kisame was aware of his shot at power. That meant others were watching him. But for now, he didn't show it. At his statement, Kisame lifted two thin eyebrows in an evident interest.

"Look around, Hoshigaki. You really like how this place looks? This dump of a village? Most of the buildings are falling apart. At least a fourth of the city isn't fit to live in."

Kisame's smile fell from his face as Zabuza continued on in his shallow drone. He never took his eyes off of the face of the young man sitting across from him, despite the other's gestures to the surrounding area.

"You're high up in the social ladder around here, Hoshigaki. You know what the governing heads over Kirigakure are doing. They're attacking our own citizens. They're putting a constriction on every section of our economy to control us, and it's destroying our village. Missions are becoming limited to doing their dirty work. The money from the rice sales, fisheries, mining, go straight back into their pockets. Our fucking kids haven't participated in the Chuunin exams and now Konoha is poking around." Zabuza's speech increased in fervour halfway through, escalating to the point where he banged his fist on the table's surface.

What he was saying nearly made Kisame's jaw drop. No. The content of his rant wasn't news to him. He had long been aware of the feudal lords playing mafia on Kirigaure's trade leaders. The Mizukage? Virtually a puppet for their interests. And they were against the mingling of cultures the Chuunin exams would bring, so no genin were permitted to participate in the newly instated gatherings. Old news, all of it. But what was truly astonishing was that Zabuza was open about it. You weren't supposed to _talk_ about these things.

Finally shifting his sight away from the other's face, Kisame looked around them, at all the diner's tenders nearby. Casually, he looked from the workers, to a few strangers on the streets, and came to lean forwards, narrowing his eyes.

"You know all these things are happening, Kisame. And you know Mist is falling apart. This village _needs_ new leadership."

Hoshigaki Kisame was glaring down at the fellow shinobi across from him, with a look that suggested that he was facing a particularly venomous insect. "You're speaking of rebellion." He hissed between his jagged teeth. His matter-of-fact tone sounded like an accusation rather then a statement.

"Yes. I'm speaking of rebellion." Zabuza answered, perhaps a bit too loudly for Kisame's liking. His voice fell lower, as the shot finally came, "And you are exactly what I need to make it work."

Kisame knew a sales pitch when he heard one. And once more Zabuza made no attempt to be subtle. He returned to his position of leaning back, and his typical smile wormed its way back on him.

"I'm flattered that you think I could help you. Really." He responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "But I must ask, why the hell are you popping this question on me? Are you really that naive to think that I'm not going to report this?"

And Zabuza broke into a leery smile. It was astonishing. He acted as if he actually wasn't fearful that his intentions would be discovered.

"No, Hoshigaki. I know you won't reveal me. It's because of how you're always grinning. Regardless of who leads this country, you don't give a damn about anything. And that's what I can use."

Immediately Kisame stiffened up, the expression of annoyance spreading across his face. He stood up, and stepped to the side of the table. From his position, he was several heads higher then Zabuza was. Reaching back, he grabbed the handle of Samehada, and placed that on the strap that looped around him.

"And you, Momochi?" he was sneering, half amused, half irritated, down at the young ANBU, "You are just a little punk that can't stand authority if you're not in charge. You should just shut your trap. Being young, it would be a pity for you to die so soon." He tossed his head up, turning his back to Zabuza.

There was a sound of wood scraping against wood; Zabuza had left his seat in a hurry. "You are just so afraid to leave your little scrap of security, aren't you?" All of a sudden the ANBU was livid with hushed fury, "I can see now why you left your place on the battlefield for a god dammed office job."

Kisame had turned around to give a retort, but all that was left near the table were small wafts of mist. Giving a small huff, he strode away from the restaurant's patio, and across the street.

Standing in front of one of the bums against the wall, he reached down and pulled their hat off.

A dirty mess of white hair greeted him, and a boy looked up at him. The kid closed his eyes and smiled, showing jagged teeth. When he opened them once more, they were focused on the Samehada, rather then Kisame's face.

Initially, Kisame suspected it was out of fear. "You heard everything, kid?"

The boy tilted his head to the side, squinting playfully, "I think so."

"You a spy, or something, then?"

"Nope."

Kisame snorted, and reached back for the handle of his weapon. The kid seemed to perk up, excitement in his eyes. "If you aren't a spy, brat, why were you following us?"

"Because of your sword." The boy answered, simply.

Kisame lowered his arm back to his side. This kid wasn't a threat.

"Got a name, kid?"

"Suigetsu."

Kisame folded his arms across his head, and looked up, towards the roof of the building. "You an orphan?"

"In this town, who isn't?"

Kisame did not like security. What Zabuza had said was wrong. Maybe he did smile to show how he wasn't concerned, maybe, but he didn't cling to his security. And he did care who was in charge. But he didn't care for working under punks wanting to be tyrants. And where did Zabuza get 'office job' from? Vice Head of Torture and Interrogation could hardly be considered an 'office job'.

Suigetsu rose to his feet, and snatched the moth eaten hat out of the older man's hand. Donning his disguise once more, he turned his back to Kisame.

"I'm going. The other man said he'd be getting his today and I want to watch."

His sword? Kisame thought, raising his eyebrows. Oh. Well that makes things interesting.

Momochi Zabuza was mostly unfazed by his failure with Kisame. There was really only one quality of the man he had found worthwhile anyway, and that was the Samehada on his back. That prevented the two from being equals.

But all that was about to change, starting from the second appointment he had arranged, at ten in the morning.

He had to go even deeper into the shitholes of town this time, where garbage was left on the streets and buildings stood with their roofs fallen in open decay. Finally, he stood in front of the ruined training area. White concrete was bleached by age, except for the dark stains on some of its walls, denoting blood, or perhaps just refuse. At the crumbling entrance, a man leaned his back against the surface behind him, and drank from his flask. Age had done him moderately well, staved off to some extent by the man's active lifestyle, but speeded by his drinking habits. His hair was a wiry gray, and in much shorter supply then Zabuza remembered. And his face was nearly bothering to the sight, as his wrinkles from frowning and smiling mixed poorly with the scars from his battles.

"Oye, you're early." The old man called out to him in greeting.

Zabuza noticed the weapon, finally, the one that still was hitched to the elder's back. It was as gloomy and demanding as it had been when he had first seen it, a symbol of immortality compared to the image of a decomposing man.

His eyes narrowed with a calm arrogance. "Hello Teacher. I've come for the sword."


	8. Laying a Claim

Chapter Eight,

Laying a Claim

* * *

"Hello Teacher. I've come for the sword."

The old man resting against the solemn wall had the faintest look of amusement on his face as he regarded Zabuza. It was one of his oddly outstanding traits, to seem all knowing without actually knowing much at all. But, lifting his shoulders off the ragged stone, the elder relented to enter the arch that funnelled into the run down training camp.

And for a parting thought, Zabuza stood, watching the other move. But such a gesture was broken when the other called out,

"Come on, sonny boy. I haven't got all day."

_Pah_. Zabuza considered. _As if the aging fart would have anything to do today if it weren't for me. _But the younger shinobi followed, trailing the other into the building.

Inside the gray sky could be seen, as the domed roof of the facility had long fallen inwards, leaving broken debris all over the once well kept tile. It used to be two stories as well, but the fall of the ceiling caused the whole of it to fall in. Odd outcrops, the remaining parts of the second floor, surrounded the makeshift arena, giving it almost the feel of an ancient amphitheatre.

There were some remaining rubbish left behind of the various homeless that had taken shelter here before moving on, but it was basically just a shirt hanging on a pointed chuck of stone and some food trash.

It was wide, and it was empty. Zabuza had picked it out with these two qualities in mind.

Once both the men had settled in the center of the place, Zabuza drew his ANBU ordered blade from its holster on his back. It had a shorter reach then he wanted—and needed—but it served him well over the years.

His opponent swung down the huge blade on his back, more then a match for his.

"Your mist is not needed here, Zabuza," his mentor announced, cheery voice booming so that the name bounced on the walls and returned to them magnified, "O' young master of the Silent Killing technique. You're welcome to use some other water techniques on me, but I wouldn't."

Under the bandages on his face, Zabuza smirked. Senile old fool, trying to mock him. His old teacher was underestimating him if he didn't think Zabuza could land a kill without his mist.

"Well then, I think we've wasted enough time." Momochi finally spoke, in his raspy voice.

"Agreed. On three, then---?"

Zabuza was already charging.

His katana whistled in the air as it came down, directly downwards, at his master's shoulder. But the old man merely lifted an arm, and Zabuza felt his blade connect with something very solid.

The sleeve of the old man's shirt fell away, cleaved by Zabuza's blow. Underneath glinted a metal arm guard, designed purely for the brawler's swordplay.

With a jerk, the elder shinobi swatted Zabuza's blade so that the other stumbled momentarily.

And, getting both hands on the hilt of his great sword, brought the broad flat of it slamming into Zabuza's body---in a movement barely perceptible to the human eye.

The ANBUs body was tossed across the building, striking the wall with enough force to crack it.

"Nice try, kiddo. But next time go for the vitals!" the mentor called out, laughing.

Until, of course, Zabuza burst into water.

"Oh-ho!" he called out, knowing exactly what was coming.

A point of thin sword was poking abruptly out of his belly. "Thank you for the lesson, then, I'll take it to heart." Zabuza was behind him, driving the blade further in.

And the aging Mist nin burst into water.

Zabuza felt the wind from it, as the giant sword cut through the air, and it cut through him--But he burst into water.

Behind his opponent, the Momochi sliced at his neck—but he burst into water.

The two kept rising, each of them coming from above and behind. Water from their replacements splattered the floor, creating numerous puddles that reflected the cloudy sky and the two combatants' blinking forms.

Zabuza made an eagle's dive with his sword, then brought it into a swift thrust. It snuck into the great whole near the end of the other's weapon, cutting into the elder's shoulder. Tiny droplets of blood joined the water on the ground.

Both hovering in the moment, Zabuza was already half expecting a retaliation at his back. But it wouldn't come from behind.

"About time." His opponent chuckled. And he swung his sword in a stiff movement, wheeling the hilt of his blade into a cracking encounter with Zabuza's jaw.

The younger nin fell--clutching his weapon--roughly onto a slab of the ceiling. His mentor followed quickly after, following it up with two forceful feet into his ex-student's stomach before jumping back to avoid a counter attack.

For a moment Zabuza writhed, clutching at his stomach while his jaw seared in a pained complaint. But he had to get up. Stumbling back to his feet with a loose rocking motion, he saw his opponent standing near the back of the facility. The large puddle of water remained in between them.

Hand signs came quickly to him, the Momochi having obsessively mastered every one he needed to the point that he often remembered the symbols rather then the actual name of the technique.

Warm chakra flowed out of his arms, out towards the water on the floor while gathering some moisture right out of the air. The water on the floor bubbled, like a boiling noodle pot. With a sudden resounding roar the water rose up in the shape of a great dragon, and lurched forward at the older shinobi.

"Water Dragon Bullet Technique."

But the other was prepared.

Dragging his sword so it carved a gash in the ground, he rushed the water jutsu. Raising the sword, he and the dragon were near to colliding, the elemental beast with its gaping jaws wide.

It between the two jaws, the other dragged the sword through. Blade first, it cut through the entire technique, sawing it in half and leaving it as nothing but water on the floor once more. And he kept charging.

Zabuza was caught off guard by his speed, as the man swung the sword to strike at the younger. The broad side of it hit him in the chest, and he was sent back once more, this time with his true body.

Leaping forward once more, the old man struck at Zabuza's wrist, and the metal guard hit hard.

With a metallic ringing, Zabuza's sword slid across the tile, far out of his reach.

"It's over." The gray haired man declared, bringing his sword down in a steep slash.

Three other Zabuzas came, diving at the man while the real one slid out of the way, a slow white haze forming about Zabuza's body.

The stone shattered under the force of the blade, where the young ANBU had been just a breath before.

The three burst into water as the elder shinobi spun in a simple slashing attack. And he was moving again quickly, grabbing Zabuza by the leg, pulling him away from the sword he was reaching for.

He let go of the younger to lift the sword above his head, to bring it descending on the unarmed ANBU who still seemed oddly blurred--

Zabuza got to his feet in an instant--

The blade came down--

And froze. As Zabuza made a single, silent movement with one arm.

The two combatants saw red. Red on the blade that Zabuza was suddenly clutching in his hand. There was a feeling of white hot pain, and then cold.

Out of the corner of his eye, the elder shinobi saw the sword on the ground burst into smoke.

The great sword fell back as its owner released it. But the old man did not need to see the red line rapidly spreading across his stomach, where he had been bisected.

Zabuza's opponent fell to the ground, his torso a few centimetres higher then the rest of him.

He was looking up at Zabuza then, while the blood pooled out of his mouth.

"…con…gratulations, kid." He managed to whisper up to his victor.

Without any expression on his face, Momochi Zabuza walked over to the fallen sword, and grabbed it by the hilt. With surprising ease, he heaved it up and set it in the ground next to his old mentor's face, so he could see his reflection.

Blinking his dulling eyes, the wrinkled, aged shinobi gave a shallow sigh.

"…finally." A smile.

And he was mercifully still.

There was an echoing sound across the space of the inside of the building. A reverberating clapping.

Zabuza turned his head, looking over to where a boy, dressed in oversized clothes, sat on the edge of a second store outcrop. Swinging his feet merrily, his legs were handing over the edge.

The boy's bright eyes gleamed at him, even from that distance away, as he applauded.

Not bothering to acknowledge the stranger, Zabuza lifted the sword, and placed it on his shoulders, his neck cradled in the half circle on the edge.

With one arm steadying the hilt, the weight of the weapon pressed down upon him.

But it was an achievement, not a burden.

Momochi Zabuza left the abandoned training grounds, the clapping still ringing in his ears.

* * *

The inside of the Torture and Interrogation headquarters (read, the main office) was rather drab, the walls a stone gray, the ceiling a stone gray, and the people inside it ended up looking gray too, under the fluorescent light—

Oh, no. It was actually just Kisame who ended up looking gray. He was halfway there already naturally.

Being second in command actually had its perks, including his own desk with his name posted up on the front of it. Right now Kisame had his feet on it, leaning back in his chair.

A small, plastic metronome kept a beat on his desk, filling the air with a rhythmic ticking.

"Oy, Hoshigaki, sir," a bingo book writer he had requested entered the room. "Got the files you wanted."

This kid was a bit younger then most of the writers Kisame had seen. He also looked a lot less… suicidal? Probably because he was young. He had a freckled face—a rarity in this country--and a crooked grin.

The manila folder slid across his desk, and Kisame brought his legs back down to the floor. He reached across to pick it up and open it.

He inspected the mission summary first. It was an account of who took out the mission, who's paying for it, how much…

"Ten thou in ryou?" the blue skinned man read out loud, "That's pretty low for an ANBU mission."

"Yes, but, this one was based on general importance." The informant answered.

Ah. Right. Meaning what they actually were doing wasn't worth that much but only an ANBU squad could do it. Sucks to be them then. Those cases could be considered community service.

"Let's see… Northern city… turns out some vigilantes have starting fighting out against gangs and causing an uproar within the urban areas. Ouch. Looks like they've got to go and throw some water on things. Seven dead already." Kisame grinned, "To sum it all up, they've got to restore order by paying the vigilantes and gangs a visit. Shouldn't be too hard for them, then." Abruptly, he looked up.

"Did you get who's on the squad?"

"It's in there, sir."

Kisame tilted the folder down and six sets of photos spilled out. Momochi's face was on the top of the pile, glaring at him. He shifted the photos around, spreading them so he could see them all at once.

Watching with a poorly concealed interest, the young information gather offered, "I think it's a pretty strong squad, sir. Dog hierarchy, admittedly, but it's still well rounded "

But the other wasn't so sure.

He lifted one photo and flipped to its back. A bit of information was written on there.

"Not so much. Looks like we've got a loose cannon."

"Momochi?"

"Besides him, I mean. Look at this. This kid here was a sweeper until he was forcibly removed from service. What for?"

"Oh." The young adult blinked his eyes, and then nodded, "Yeah. Apparently he was an efficient sweeper, except for the fact that he would always attend the funerals of the folks he off'ed, and often admitted to killing them."

That brought a sharp snort in Kisame.

"Not only that, but since he was moved to ANBU a few months ago, he's had thirteen cases of insubordination." The informant continued.

"Yeah, you wrote that down. Damn. I'm surprised he's still on a squad."

The other gave a shrug in response.

Kisame brought a hand to his forehead, grinning and half cringing. "So on one end of our currently leaderless squad, we have Momochi Zabuza, who's trying to take control of the squad. And now we have this guy, who can't swallow any order given to him. Geez. I swear the recruiters just set these things up so they have something to laugh about later."

"When you put it like that, Hoshigaki, sir, it does sound pretty bad."

The vice of T and I was busy putting the files back in the folder now, satisfied, "There has to be a proverb for this, somewhere. Like… "When the alpha's away, the dogs next in line will…"

"Play?"

Giving another snort, Kisame sat up and offered the folder back to the information gatherer. "I was about to say "rip each others' throats out", but I suppose that makes for a better rhyme."

In the next room over, through even the thick walls, Kisame heard a chuunin rush in, and announce that someone had been killed.

Looks like Zabuza finally got his sword.

"They're wasting their time trying to find the culprit." Kisame muttered under his breath, "By now he's out of the village."

The informant, who could hear the ruckus in the other room as well, frowned.

"Yes sir." He answered, and quietly left Kisame's office.

* * *

_A/N: If all goes as planned, the next chapter will introduce Haku.  
Oh, and so dies the old nameless man. Finally._


	9. Missing a Body

Chapter Nine,

Missing a Body

* * *

ANBU masks were always to be worn on missions and on formal occasions. They cost a lot to make, as they had to be out of a special material, and the 'artists' that did the decorative swirls on the faces demanded high commissions. So if you lost your first one, you had to pay to replace it. But they were always to be worn, as they gave the ANBU squad its most important quality; Anonymity. There was apparently something of terror in a flock of masked beings. In a group, they had to lose their identity to be able to function. They were counted as a group. An S-ranked criminal would brag about taking down ANBU squads, not individual ANBU.

In order to complete their missions, they were forced to cooperate.  
But, in contradiction, their masks also allowed them to identify each other.

Zabuza was already getting accustomed to the other members of his squad.

The Monkey.  
The Dog.  
The Crane. (Who had a poor choice in their mask, as the long bill of the stylized bird was known for being a real hassle)  
The Fox. (Who could barely told apart from the dog, even with its more pointed snout)  
The Boar.  
And finally himself, the Rabbit. It was the most distinctive besides the crane, with its tiny ears at the top and the small mouth.

The animal was your name in the group, and you were referred to as such.

They spent half a day traveling, not speaking amongst each other and generally just passed the time watching each others movements. The Monkey was the oldest member, he could tell from how he walked that he was around fifty. The Crane was female, they could all tell that, although her visible features were not readily interesting.

ANBU mask concealed the eyes of those wearing them, so he couldn't tell when they looked at him nor they when he did. But he could feel their eyes on him, on his great sword on his back.  
Good. He wanted them to stare.

The air became gradually colder as they went north, towards the coast that was nearest to their neighbor, Cloud country.

It was Zabuza who broke the hours long silence.

"This place is so damn cold. How is it mostly a farming village?" It was a question he shouted out, merely to give sound to the arrogant thought in his head. He hadn't been expecting a response.

"The soil is extremely fertile." The Monkey spoke up, from the head of the pack that had formed itself into a V formation, imitating the classic migrating bird pattern. "Even though the growing season is extremely short, they can make a very good living due to the quality of food they can grow."

From his position at the right flank of the V, Zabuza saw some the others bob their heads slightly, as if satisfied with the information.  
But the Monkey continued on, even if his further statements weren't required, "It's a big gamble for them, though. If the crops fail, they're left in the snow with no money and no food."

No one nodded in response that time. In the distance they saw dark gray clouds, and the ground gradually turning white. Zabuza found himself wishing that he had layered up more.

* * *

The snow was a continuous presence, flecking their shoulders (and melting, to make the ANBU annoyingly wet and colder still) and getting caught in their loose hair. But the town bustled and thrived like any, filled with venders selling and purchasing the last of the fall season's crops. Good quality peppers, some hardy thick skinned fruits, gourds and pumpkins, and especially root vegetables were all laid out for the public scrutiny. There was also a surprising amount of fish being sold, as the fisherman had hurried to harvest the last of the schools they could before the ice moved in and made the ocean near them inaccessible. The fish were all laid with gleaming scales on beds of ice, eyes still bright as the freezing air kept them cooler naturally. These fish were great specimens, and Zabuza noted a few of his comrades lingering around the stalls while the vendors made their sales pitches. Crane and Boar promised to return to buy some prawns and red snapper after their mission was over. The Fox bought a few pounds of eel, and pocketed the wrapped bundle. The people of the town were surprisingly well off, living off the bounty of their community. They bound themselves up in their thick clothes, made of both spun wool and well tended animal furs. They chatted kindly with each other, and reflected a look of a peaceful community. At least, on the surface they seemed content. 

An aggravated cry came from over the murmur of the crowd. "Damn it! You know that isn't half a kilo of radish!"

"S-sir, I assure you that I did not alter that scale." Came the response of the stall tender, trying to remain calm.

The Shinobi in the area all turned to the vegetable stall in question, seeing both the aggravated customer and the trembling, elderly shop keeper. They might have ignored the little money squabble, if the man yelling hadn't pulled out a knife.

A hiss came up through the crowd, as the people nearest jerked back and the people some distance away pulled closer to get a better look. The shop keeper held up both his hands, his face contorted in his terror.

"Didn't alter the scale? Oh. We'll see. Take off the weights." The offender gestured to the balance used to measure the weight of the food. The elder man stammered a response, but his attacker jerked the knife threateningly towards the other's chest. "Do it now!"

Submitting, the vender turned to the scales and began taking off the measuring weights. The side of the balance with the radishes dropped down. The elderly man hesitated, and had to be persuaded further with another harsh order from the knife wielding assailant.

When the scale was cleared… the one side of it dipped downwards. It was unbalanced. A part of a scam.  
The whole group of people silenced, and Zabuza almost felt sorry for the old shop keeper.

"You're getting it now. Oh ho. Try to rip me off? I'll, I'll—" The younger man was fighting mad, the hand clutching the knife shaking. He gave a lurch towards the counter of the stall, and both the Fox and the Crane were fighting through the crowd towards the two.

But another group of people intervened before they could.

Three men, rough shaven and looking henpecked, shoved several people out of the way to get to their fellow. They caught his arms and pulled him back. Their gaze flitted around, directed at the number of ANBU on the street.

"Come on. Not here. You're making a scene."

"Later. We'll deal with this later."

The group of them whispered amongst each other in hushed voices, the one still weakly holding the knife as he was escorted down the street by his supposed neighbors.

The crowd dissipated, its attention no longer held by the finished scene. And the shop tender stood alone, for no one would buy from him now that his little 'trade secret' had been revealed. The Fox relaxed his arms, and let out a vocal sigh. Their first hour in the village and they had already witnessed an act of near violence.

"You alright, sir?" The kitsune ANBU asked the trembling, elderly man.

He bobbed his head, his little white beard bouncing at his chin. "Yes… yes. I'm not injured. Oh… oh my."

Even though he was going against an unspoken rule of not getting too involved with the villagers, the Fox was calm, trying to be helpful. "Listen. You can't go around scamming anyone. If you hadn't just been assaulted I might have punched you out myself. Now fix your scale. Com'on."  
The ANBU group was reforming in front of that stall, while the man balanced the scale for the Fox to view.

"So…" The single ANBU leaned over the counter closer to the keeper, in an exaggerated secrecy. "Does that man have a reputation around here? Is he a vigilante, or perhaps a gang member?"

For a while the old man did not reply, looking down below the ANBU and then to his shaking, boney hands. "Oh… he's one of them vigilantes… b-but you didn't hear it from me."

Fox nodded his head, and drew back away from the stall, satisfied. Returning to the group, he placed hands on the shoulders of the Dog and the Boar, patting them in a false gesture of camaraderie before leaping up to one of the rooftops above the street. In understanding to the silent message, the group all jumped after him, evoking exclamations of awe from the villagers below. Their sandaled feet made light thumps as they landed, in an unoccupied alley corner a distance away. The group was alert, waiting for the Fox to present the information he had no doubt gathered.

His words fell out of him all at once. "I-don't-think-we-saw-what-we-think-we-just-saw."

The Monkey was the first to address him. "What do you mean by that?"

"The old man, he had a loaded crossbow underneath the counter of his little shop. Not only that, but on his belt I saw the emblem…" He reached into his pocket, but by that time so had everyone else. Each of the ANBU members pulled out their own slip of paper, and presented the image to the others.

The emblem was a fearsome one when you looked beneath its simple colors and curved lines. A snow crane, with its white body and black crest, was a common and iconic bird of the area. On the crest, it was standing erect, while two crisscrossing arrows pierced its chest. They were given the emblem as information simply because the gang members in the town used it to identify each other. "I think the shop keeper would've killed the man if we hadn't been around."

Several seconds ticked by, and the Shinobi milled about, uncertain, chewing over the new information. No one was in control of the situation at the moment, Zabuza figured, Monkey was trying, but right now was the moment to take charge.

"We have a window for information and it still might be open. We need to move quickly. Fox, Crane, both of you tail the 'vigilante'. The rest of us need to fan out to look for anyone else with this emblem." His voice was clear even from behind his mask, loud enough to be commanding but discreet enough to not draw attention from anyone within hearing range. There were no disagreements against him, meaning they were going to listen to the commands.

"And I don't need to tell you this, but we're after the leaders of the group. Don't bother engaging the small fry. There was a clock on the post near the stall selling squid. You all remember it? We meet near that clock in two hours. Let's move out." No questions. No protests. They all were mere blurs as they leapt away, to each their own tasks.

* * *

The window he had spoken of had closed. The 'vigilantes' had disappeared from the streets and were unable to be found within the two hour period. Zabuza figured it had been of incompetence but, who was to say? 

However, there was one bit of information worth chasing.

And of course, it was the Mist nin in the Monkey's mask that found it. The people around them walked past, and they stared without hesitation at the orderly group all sitting in front of a café. "Oy, Rabbit. I heard something I think is worth investigating." The eldest ANBU was sitting across from him, the mask impassive and his voice equally so.

"Oh?" Zabuza lifted his head a faction, frustrated, but eager to get moving again.

"There's been a local cluster of murders up further north. No one's moved it and its cold enough to preserve the bodies."

That got Zabuza's attention, to say the least. A group of murders? That was a blaringly obvious lead. But he played aloof. "Tch. So what of it?"

"Well, there are some very exceptional circumstances with this one. Word of mouths says shinobi did it."

* * *

It took an hour and a half to get up to the goddamned farmlands where the scene was located. The population thinned out as they went further north, and the snow deepened infuriatingly as well. The people here dressed more modestly, were much more quiet, and shyed away back into their homes as the ANBU group loped pass. 

"Guilty conscious?" Fox wondered outloud.

A curious child, lingering in the doorway was dragged inside by their skittish parent.

The house itself could have been normal, some little insulated wooden cottage next to a small, now frozen stream. Ice covered remains of crops hung like morbid sculptures nearby in the abandoned field bordering the home.

But something marred the house beyond its familiar, comforting shape.

Spires of ice, pointed and cruel, were thrust from the walls, the wood splintered and bent at the points where they had forced themselves out. Upon further examination, no less then three bodies hung limply on the ends of three spires, the tips jutting out of their backs.

* * *

The collar was tight on his neck, and he was being dragged, bare feet stumbling over the concrete that was so painfully cold. Coming to the city was a mistake. He wasn't expecting to be glared at, turned out of any shelter he searched for, his pleas for help ignored. 

His mom had told him to never reveal what he truly was, and he hadn't. But his mom and dad were dead and everyone seemed to know just what he was. Or maybe everyone just didn't want to see the dirty little child limping around, wailing, searching for some warm place he could rest.

Eventually, some had found him, though, Someone had picked him up while he was still half asleep, and put some collar on him, chained him up.

"Please let me go." He dug his heels down, causing the man to stop, for the moment.

But the adult wouldn't have any of it. "Come on kid." The chain was tugged a few times, the pull on his neck an order stronger then the one spoken.

"_Please_. Let me go." He repeated, the child's dark eyes blanker then any pained child's should ever be.

"I'm taking you to a place you'll be fed. Where you'll be warm. Now come on!" The man yanked hard, and the child nearly fell to the ground.

In a half sob, the boy gripped the chain in both tiny hands, and thrashed. "No!"

Despite his earlier tolerance, the elder's patience was wearing thin. The pulls on the chain were cruel now, to the point that they threatened physical harm. "You'll come with me, or I'll—"

Suddenly the chain when slack, and in a blur of dirtied clothes and messy black hair, the child was sprinting off, running into the alleys of the streets, making any turn he could to put distance between his captor and himself.

And the slaveholder stood there, astonished, with one end of the chain still in hand. Had it been rusted? He kneeled down where the chain had broken, and was shocked to see the last link of the chain coated in ice, where it had been cleanly broken in half.

* * *

The bodies were pretty difficult to sift through, and that might have been one of the reasons no looters had taken anything from them and the house. (Well, that, and the fact that the dead bodies and the house were impaled by giant crystal spines.)  
The fabric of their clothes were frozen to the skin, and it took some time fighting it to pat the corpses down and discover that they weren't really carrying anything that could identify them. 

Their faces were just as useless, seemingly bruised to the point of mutilation from the frostbite. Their eyes, however, were frozen open, chillingly glazed over with a layer of ice.

"Yeah…" Zabuza muttered, "There was definitely a shinobi involved."

"I'm going to take a guess here and say these aren't gang members. They are dressed like farmers and this guy has a hatchet frozen to his hand." Crane scraped her hands on her vest, after frisking the third body.

"Vigilantes, then?" Boar asked, from behind her.

Zabuza scowled behind his mask, as he pulled out a wallet from the pocket of the second body, with only stiff bills inside. "It's a possibility. But there's no way we can tell, since they don't have any identifying icons—Shit."

The spines sticking out of the building were like glass in their clarity, but at the same time worked like geometric shapes crafted out of mirrors. And at the angle he had walked into by accident, a face was reflected in one single facet of the ice.

At his hiss of surprise, the other Shinobi looked up, tensing.

"What?" Monkey was there behind him, searching for what he had seen. Thoughtlessly, Zabuza reached back to nudge the other, unable to tear himself from the sight.

She had frozen much better then the others had, lightly frosted so that her skin was only blotched, but at the same time shockingly pale. Her ebony black hair was in sweeping curls all around her. She might have been beautiful while she breathed.

"Yeah… There's a fourth body. Female." Finally jerking his gaze away, he informed the others. Several gave some murmurs of discontent, and gathered closer.

The Monkey gave a sharp inhale, and blurted out, "…She's a blood carrier."

The other members of the group instantly quieted.

The only sound came from the hardened clothes of the bodies, crackling quietly as a sudden gust of wind moved them.

Crane broke the silence first, speaking with a tone that suggested some scientific curiosity that Zabuza found absolutely revolting, "Really? Like a Kaguya all the way out here?"

Monkey shook his head. "No. Like an ice user."

'_I thought they'd all died out_.'  
'_No. Most just fled out into hiding'  
_'_Is that why this one is here?'  
_'_I don't know…'_

Ripples of interest rebounded through the group, while Zabuza gave a huff that drew the Monkey's attention. "How can you tell?"

The other Shinobi ran a finger over where his eyebrows would be, then traced his thumb over his partially masked jawbone. "She has the facial structure. The brow is rather subtle, and the jaw is always well defined. I'd be able to tell one apart easily." A pause, and then a bit of conceit entered the other's voice. "They were abundant during the war. But you would have been too young to really have seen any."

…How dare he. Even though none had so far had questioned any directions he gave the group, this Monkey obviously believed him to be some young rookie. He hadn't any idea whom he was dealing with.

But the nearly nonexistent tension in the air was defused by a sudden shuddering thud. And another.

It was the Dog.

Having not done anything worth noting until the point, the Dog was abruptly in activity.

His foot slammed down on the wooden door of the house, and it buckled from the blow. He gave it another kick, the resounding thuds making the air quake. The door was quite adamant about staying in place, but as some of the wood fell away, it became apparent that a wall of the ice on the other side was holding it up.

"What are you doing?" Crane demanded, even though it was obvious. So obvious, in fact, that the Dog didn't bother answering her.

Zabuza was walking across the snow then, and he reached behind him to wrap his fingers around the great sword on his back.

With a more potent shove then necessary, the Dog was forced aside, and Zabuza thrust his zanbato forward.

In a splintering of wood and ice, the door gave in, and its remains were thrust inside the house, scattering over the woman's body that lay on the floor.

Dried, iced blood surrounded her from some old wounds inflicted long before. She had been stabbed to death with some crude weapon, perhaps the hatchet the one man still held in death.

"So," The Dog spoke for the first time on their mission, his voice a rough rasp, muffled by the ceramic mask, "Did the woman kill them?"

It seemed like the most obvious turn of events that could have gone on.

"Could be. They obviously killed her. But I don't think she returned the favor." Monkey spoke up again, as the squad entered the small house, and spread out to search what parts weren't blocked by the spines of ice.

Zabuza was getting annoyed by the endless conjecture by the older 'veteran' and demanded, "Explain."

"The ice technique. It's very malformed, very erratic. The woman would have probably been trained, so it would have been a more even formation. But this seems like it was formed subconsciously. She could have been in a panic, but I think there was a third party here."

There was a dresser on one wall, covered with family photos and a pot of decaying flowers. Lifting one fallen frame, Zabuza found himself faced with the smiling faces of a husband and wife, and a small child between them, held behind fractured glass.

A happy, loving family.

Until someone found out what the wife was.

His focus fell on the child, some fair boy no older then seven. He had his mother's features.

"Third party, huh?"

They were missing a body.

* * *

_A/N: Haku has been introduced like I said he would be, but I had intended to have him and Zabuza meet face to face in this chapter. But next chapter they will meet._

_Sorry for such the long pause as well. I was taking up some other writing fixations. But snce I'm at a good part in the fic, I'll try to update more often. Thank you for your continued support._


	10. Eyes Like Mine

Chapter Ten,

Eyes Like Mine

* * *

The puzzle was fractured, still, pieces missing that prevented him from completing the image in his mind. But the outline was there, and he knew what he was searching for. The biggest piece of the puzzle came when he shuffled back out into the snowy air outside, and looked upon the bodies again, gazing back and forth between the frostbitten faces and the photograph of the husband. 

The second body, the one he had searched, bore as much resemblance as such a damaged face as that could. It wasn't beyond a shadow of a doubt, but Zabuza was willing to place stakes that it was the husband.

And the scene fell into place.

She must have worked hard all this time, disregarding her past, falsifying every memory of the village, of her family, to live out here with this farmer. They had a kid. They were happy. A normal, simple family.

Until one way or another, the husband found out. Perhaps the wife had gotten into a fight, and showed too much aptitude in the squabble to pass off as lucky agility. Maybe the husband was naturally suspicious, and paid someone to investigate her bloodline.

Maybe it was the child who revealed the dreaded secret.  
But the end result was the same.

The husband had come in, with two of his friends to make sure that he could overpower the 'blood tainted'. Someone, whether the missing boy or the wounded wife, had struck out.  
The men died, frozen and gutted on the spires of ice. The woman died of her wounds sometime during or afterwards

"There's no reason to investigate this further." He informed the group, as they recollected at the front of the house. "This was a domestic dispute."

To pursue the case would be a waste of time. The killers were all dead, or presumed dead. The missing kid could have not been present, dead before the incident, or had been removed from the scene, forcibly or otherwise. But regardless of the final result, the murder crime didn't affect their mission. Even if Zabuza's curiosity was piqued about the fate of the child (even after the tenth examination of the family photograph he found it nigh impossible to determine for certain the kid's gender) and even if the other members of his squad wanted to learn more about the 'Blood taint' that had lived and died in the house, they still had a mission and did not have the freedom to follow on their own interests.

So it was back to square one; the city.

* * *

At night the bustle of the city had eccentrically ceased. Everything was quiet, save for a few stragglers who ran to their houses and boarded up. No more stalls remained in the streets. A picturesque plastic bag bounced and bobbed in the freezing wind over the road. Most of the lights were out, even, giving the place the feel of a ghost town. 

"Something's up." Spoke one of the group, in a muffled voice. The ANBU had gathered into an atypically tight little knot as snow fell around them and the air froze their clothes to their skin. Zabuza didn't bother looking behind him, it didn't matter who said it, he was sure they were all thinking it.

At least two Shinobi had relented to show a sign of weakness, rubbing their hands on the opposing upper arms to try and warm themselves. The rest of the group gave invisible glares, trying to wordlessly reprimand the two while on the inside they cursed themselves for their pride. Zabuza was one of the ANBU glaring. He knew he couldn't break his appearance of strength but it was just so damned cold. Even if any relief wasn't worth his pride, it was still worth enough to consider.

The Dog was one of the ones trying to warm his arms. Zabuza was beginning to think he was one real class idiot.

They snaked through the streets and into deeper alleys, where the snow piled high in corners and against trash bins and Zabuza found himself feeling remotely disgusted that even this town would provide a place to freeze to death. How hospitable.

The town, despite its emptiness, was not entirely silent. Well, truth be told, at first the ANBU thought that the sounds were figments that their woefully overactive minds were creating. Some rumbles, a few bumps echoed out, perhaps from the other side of town.

Until a very human cry reverberated in the snowy air, loud enough to breach the doubt they had all cast over it.

Someone was getting attacked? The close knit formation of Shinobi shifted and lost shape, before one masked figure honed in on where the noise had come from and led the group in a charge. Then they were all leaping over rooftops, chakra overtly aiding their feet, to avoid any slips on the iced shingles and wood. The sounds grew more vibrant and vicious as they neared, changing from mute scuffles to full out signatures of combat. Whatever this was, it involved more then just a victim and a robber.

Noiselessly, they charged in a mass, and found themselves looking over the central square of the town, where in the near pitch darkness a fight with at least twenty pairs of men was already well in the process.

Twenty pairs of men were still standing, that is. More then a handful of still bodies lay unnoticed on the frosted stone of the square.

In the night there was no way to identify anyone, Zabuza didn't even try. What would be the point in that? In the remarkable collective thought of an ANBU squad, however, he moved with his comrades to enter the fray.

He saw a crowbar swing in the air, towards him as he moved too close in between two opposing figures. But he also saw the hand holding it, and he grabbed the wrist with a grip like iron.  
Only to release it, in his astonishment, when the other fighter behind him struck his shoulder with a truncheon.

He made no noise, no movement to indicate he had even felt the blow--besides the release of the other's hand--but his shoulder was _smarting_. That would leave a blackened bruise.

Zabuza leaned himself forward and caught the shirt-front of the first man, and with a heave, flung him away from his enemy, and himself. One down.  
As he whirled around to face his attacker, however, he was able to see the makeshift battlefield come to a halt. The two opposing factions had been split, with a belt of ruffled ANBU in between them.

The groups did not seem to know how to react to the sudden appearance of ninja. Behind him, he could hear the comrades of the man he had tossed help their fellow up. It was the only noise in the stunned silence that had smothered them all.

"_Disturbing the peace_." He spoke, the extent of his voice limited by the mask and bandages he wore. "Disturbing the peace." He repeated, uselessly, but now his voice had been heard. And he hadn't been expecting a reply. Especially not one so soon.  
From the center of one side of the group came an almost jeering response.

"This is none of your damn business!"

And to everyone's surprise, there was a murmur of agreement from both sides.  
But Zabuza had advanced on the young man who had spoken out, before anyone--comrade or otherwise—had a chance to stop him.

"None of our business?" He echoed, close enough in the dark to be able to make out the vigilante's features (He was dressed pretty poorly, so 'vigilante' was the assumption) "We wouldn't be here if we weren't on a mission. And our mission is to stop whatever hell you 'gang members' and 'vigilantes'," Zabuza was lucky he could do subtle; otherwise the amount of disgust that he would have displayed would have looked poorly on a mission summary, "raise. It is, literally, our business. So surrender, _all of you_, and be glad we're not allowed to slaughter civilians anymore."

His fellow squad members gave silent approval, and at once the murmurs of the townspeople ceased as they struggled to accept the speech the Momochi had laid down for them.

It seemed some decisions had to be made. The mostly untrained civilians had to estimate whether they as a group could take on six ready-for-war ANBU members. Even the gang members would be hard pressed to successfully pull off such a stunt. Maybe if the two fighting groups worked together they may have given them some trouble, but such a unity would be impossible.

The only agreement that came up was the identical surrender from both sides.

* * *

The ANBU squad had split off into two sets of three. The Monkey, being a 'leader figure' lead the Fox and the Boar to round up the gang members and to seek out their leader. Zabuza was left with the Crane, who seemed to be able to address the townspeople at an easier level. Perhaps it was the common misconception that kunoichi were gentler than their male comrades. Either way, they seemed more willing to trust her than him. The Dog was also left to his group, unfortunately. Like the last kid picked for the team in some child's sport, the Dog had been placed in his care. Which was fine. Zabuza could tolerate him if he didn't make a nuisance of himself. The three of them did work together, as expected, however, and they toiled to gather the bruised and wounded townsfolk into a building for holding. 

The main focus was to address the leader and settle things down. If the vigilantes refused to stand down and let the local authorities handle things, then their leader would be brought into custody. Simple as that. But for now they helped gather up the unconscious wounded and get everyone together to stay put.

But the vigilantes were rude, foulmouthed, and generally ungrateful for all the work the shinobi were doing for them.  
"This isn't worth what we're getting paid for." Zabuza heard the Dog mutter under his breath, after being sworn at by some older teen.

And, despite the contempt he had for that teammate, Zabuza had to agree with him.

* * *

He already had some idea of what the rebel leader was going to look like, and for the most part, the man fit the bill.  
He was rugged, dark stubble at his chin, with black hair graying in some places. He was tall in comparison to most, around the same height as Zabuza, even. And he was rather… angry. Well, Zabuza would have preferred the term passionate, as that was what the phenomena was referred to from a political standpoint, but from any other view the man just seemed pissed off. 

"You Shinobi have no right to boss us around!" He slammed his fist on the wall of the empty room they had picked out as a place to commune. Zabuza and the Crane did not move from where they stood, unshaken from the gesture, but he still found himself moderately thankful that the door was open, and that the other members of the vigilante group could see that their leader wasn't under attack. He was making so much noise, it very well could lead into a revolt, and that would just be annoying.

"You abandon our village, unless we have money to pay you, and leave our town to be devoured by the criminals?" Pacing around the room, the leader was active, agitated, "Let us handle our own problems. We'll settle this without your help."

Zabuza's answer was quick, it only took a second to prepare, "If you could handle this without putting your village at risk, we would let you, but now your actions are endangering—"

He was interrupted, however.

"Bullshit." The man snapped back, and out of the corner of his eye Zabuza could see the Crane flinch. Tsk. She was useless in the deliberations. He gave her a gesture to go attend to the people outside the room, and she graciously accepted.

For a breath's pause the leader watched her leave, before turning his attention back to the other ANBU. The breath had been enough to quiet his voice down from a yell. "Look. I already know the reason you shinobi haven't been helping us. Your leaders have been gaining money from those gang rings ever since they moved into town. You ninja dogs want a stake in our honest living and by watching from the sidelines you're guaranteeing your cut at the payment. You don't want to help us; you want to shut us up! If you really cared, you'd have chased these… these criminals out a long time ago."  
This… made Zabuza pause, and at once a warm feeling of some pride seemed to gather up from inside his stomach. He didn't think any outside villagers knew about this kind of stuff. At least, anyone _alive_.  
Not even he had known for sure if the gang leaders had been bribing the guys in high places to prevent any justice from falling on their necks. But know he knew.

"And don't even try telling me it's not true because—"

With a simple, assuring blankness, Zabuza interrupted him before he could return to his rant, "I won't. You're right."

The man stopped, apparently shocked with what he had heard. And he had to struggle for a moment to swallow what Zabuza had just said. But the only response Zabuza received was a simple, "What?"

Not that the ANBU really expected any more. "Everything you've said is true."

And with a simple motion, Momochi Zabuza lifted his hand to the porcelain mask on his face, and removed it.

ANBU were never supposed to remove their masks until they had returned to their villages with their mission completed. It was simply against protocol, and the act disrupted the needed anonymity for a squad to function. Occasionally a 'loose cannon', as the more disobedient shinobi were termed, would remove uniform. But typically such an event meant that two shinobi were about to fight as most ninja preferred to see an enemy's face when a fight was personal.

But for Zabuza, it wasn't about any fight. No. It was actually for the sake of the man he had to convince. How could you believe someone hiding behind a mask?  
The gesture was not entirely lost on the leader of the vigilantes. He regarded the shinobi with a conserved look of surprise, examining his face while at the same time, trying to look detached.

Zabuza took that as his cue, and began to explain. His words were less muffled now, but the bandages on his face did hinder some of his speech. Too bad, removing them would show his teeth, and more so distract the man from what he was saying.

"Understand this; the leadership of Kirigakure has been plagued for corruption. They have been harming my village, and the surrounding country." Under his bandages, he cracked a smirk, "But there will be a change in government soon. A government will come that will care about your town's needs, and will not tolerate this gang behavior. Until then, I need you to tell your townspeople to settle down. To let us bring an end to the fighting so we aren't ordered to forcibly quiet everyone. Can you do that for me?"

His impromptu speech was met with silence, a thoughtful silence. The leader paced around, breaking eye contact. The ANBU watched on, considering whether he had sounded genuine enough.  
His answer came soon enough, when the civilian turned around.

"Very well. Inform your leaders that the vigilantes will lay down their arms for now. Make sure the gang members do the same." He spoke, in a voice that sounded ragged from cigarettes over the years, "In all honesty, we're tired of fighting. I just didn't think it would end like this."

Before he could open his mouth to reply with some statement of camaraderie, Zabuza's attention was abruptly taken away by a sudden loud banging on the wall of the hallway outside.

"Did you… hear that?" He heard the civilian ask, half in a murmur.

A second, more concentrated thud resounded, preceded by a choked human cry.

Without thought, Zabuza was rushing out into the hallway, and the first thing he saw was blood.

The other vigilantes were all backed up, away from the solitary ANBU who had pinned a man against the wall … with his standard grade katana. Blood was seeping out of the wound on the man's shoulder. The Dog. The damned Dog. That could have hit a vein, even though it was not a fatal strike. Whether out of shock or trying to save face, the victim was not crying out. Rather, he grit his teeth and breathed in sharp hisses. The Dog wasn't aiming towards or away from the main vein in the area, Zabuza noted. He was clumsily trying to keep his victim in place.

Zabuza grabbed the other shinobi by the wrist, twisting it until the sword was released. Best just to leave the man pinned. The Boar was their medic and he didn't know where he was at the moment.

However, the Dog was not entirely willing to let go. Nor was he willing to stop his attack when Zabuza pulled him away.

"The hell are you doing?" Zabuza roared, only now becoming aware that he had left his mask back in the other room.

Slowly, the Dog stopped struggling, and looked up at his teammate.  
"They were making a ruckus, comrade. I moved to quiet them." His tone was … smug. The Dog was downright proud of what he had done.

Startled, infuriated, Zabuza could only respond with something less than diplomacy. "…Idiot."  
He swung his arm in a sudden punch and his knuckles slammed into the cheek of the other ANBU. The blow dug into flesh, and jerked the other back, his head whipping to the side.

The hallway was silent, except for the ringing of a painted mask across the tile.

For a second, as the Dog was unmasked, Zabuza was greeted with a contradiction of images.

The other Mist nin was still, head turned, mouth open, oddly blue eyes wide.  
Unmasked, The Dog seemed… feminine? Full lips, long teal hair. How odd in comparison to his ragged voice.  
Until the moment The Dog looked back at him, bruised, and glaring.  
And then a brief recognition came through Zabuza. He had seen this mug before.

Kurosuki—

His thoughts were cut short, however, as the other shinobi swung his arm, and fist collided with face. Zabuza saw stars for a moment, reeling and nearly bumping back into the man bleeding again the wall.

He couldn't hear the leader of the vigilantes yelling at him, only the Dog giving one low snarl, and the two of them were suddenly grappling.

Shinobi fight in many different ways. Many times, you might not even see their attacks. Other times, they show flashy elemental techniques, trying to dominate one another. They may be graceful, they may not be.

Two shinobi simply fistfighting are not going to be graceful. Especially if they have no taijutsu discipline beyond their own raw strength.

In fact, they look like dogs, scrambling to get the best bite in on their enemy's throat.

All the townsfolk around them saw little hope in intervening. It was a frightening sight, that was certain. Even the Crane stood rooted to the spot, shocked, disgusted, and unable to speak.

Zabuza had just compromised any chance he had at getting a good word in for being a squad captain. He had blown it, it was gone, all because he couldn't keep his nerve around Kurosuki freaking Raiga. So, as anyone would do, he was taking it out on the object of his aggravation. Which was going rather swimmingly, as he managed to land three undercuts in the other's gut before he had to struggle to block a counter attack. But, his failure had to be cemented.

Having finished rounding up the gang members, the three other Shinobi arrived to check up on their comrades, and found two of them currently in a brawl, one watching the brawl commence, and a civilian currently dying with a weapon in his shoulder.

Zabuza allowed the Monkey to grab his shoulders and drag him away from his opponent.

His opponent, however, resisted, struggling against the Fox who was trying to hand him his mask back. Behind them, Boar wrenched the sword out of the civilian and rushed to stop the bleeding.

The Monkey was yelling at him. The leader was yelling at him. Kurosuki was swearing and swatting at his mask…

He brushed the ANBU's arm away, despite the other's noisy protests, and stormed down the hallway.  
Shoving open one door, he walked out into the snow.

The families of the two sides embroiled in the battle for the town had drifted out of their homes to see what had happened. They shrunk away from him as he came, extruding a killer intent in his movements and in his gaze fixed firmly on the snowy ground in front of him.

There was no direction in his walking, he just wanted to get away to vent in a place where such a display wouldn't be noted. He turned down an alley, crossed a bridge. Kept walking.

The lamplights had been turned on again, after the battle had been dispersed. The sky looked gray in their light, with white flecks still coming down. It was there, under a light, near some rubbish, that he nearly walked past a child, kneeling on the sidewalk.

Why was he even doing this? Pandering to his village's wishes when he should be leading it. It was all wrong. He was tired of being someone else's tool (And a rather poor one at that.)  
He felt a gaze on him, and he looked over his shoulder.

The kid was covered in dirt, with a collar attached to a broken chain. Like a mutt that had gotten away from his owner. And the kid was looking up at him.  
Two feelings came over the ANBU at once. First, a surge of understanding connected to some old memories of being out on the street. But his anger, his frustration swallowed that, and he was speaking before he could catch himself.

"Pathetic." It came half in a sigh, an exhale of cruelty.

Briefly, the child's eyes lit up, at being acknowledged.

"You're a filthy little left behind, aren't you? You're going to die soon, no doubt. You'll freeze, here, alone. Without a purpose."  
He stooped over, to be closer to the child's level.

"No one to care for you. To mourn for you when you die."  
His utterings fell upon a blank face. Silence stifled the air, until the boy smiled.

"Your eyes are just like mine. We have the same expression." A faint whisper, through shivering lips.

There was nothing that could have escaped Momochi Zabuza in that moment. No response, nothing besides to continue the stare, seeing himself reflected in the child's eyes.

And he was right.

Finally, he forced himself to breathe. Air entered his lungs, and he could move again.  
He hoisted the child to his feet; he was leading him along, back to the squad. The mission was over. They would be leaving soon.  
The boy gave no sound of protest; he did not struggle at all.

And Zabuza spoke words to claim life, "You belong to me now."

* * *

_Yessss. Haku is finally introduced and the ANBU mission is concluded. I hope it was satisfactory._

_I also hope that Raiga being 'The Dog' didn't come as too much of a surprise. When I look back, it doesn't actually seem that hinted at.  
I also beg your apologies for the extremely long lapse in posting. The holidays. School. Writers block. I can't believe I managed to write this with Viva Pinata in the house. But I digress. I shall hope to be better updating in the future and I thank all of you reading, reviewing and alerting this fic. It makes me very happy._


	11. Sea Monster

**Gray Rebellion**

**Ch 11, Sea Monster**

* * *

In the blanket of gray, it was impossible for him to see anything two meters past his face. Visibility was zero, but the muddy marsh they had entered was far from empty. The earth squished around him and his sandals sunk into mud. Squinting and looking around, he could vaguely see two of his comrades near him.

Finally deciding his sight was useless, Kisame allowed himself to slip into his other sense.

All around him he could feel it, the electrical pulsing of heartbeats. The pulses reached him, hitting the sensors on his nose, traveling up his nerves and registering in his brain. A muscle shifted, and he felt the energy that made it move. He was able to create a representation in his thoughts, tracking the motion of everyone in close proximity.

Then he extended his focus outward.

On the other side of the long field, he detected them.

They were not native to the mist, but they knew what it often contained. And how the ones that hid in it could fight.

They stood still, in quartet formations so they could not be easily snuck up on. They were still, because they knew any noise would betray them. If they stood like statues and constricted their breathing, even those who lived in the mist would be blind.

That is, if Kisame had not been there.

His captain was behind him, with barely a breath in his ear.

'How many are there?'

'Twelve. Three sets of four' He hissed back through jagged teeth.

'Whose are they?'

'Can't tell. But we'll find out.'

At that he reached back behind him, to the great enigma of a sword and clutched at its handle. Samehada was longer then he was. He trusted himself in the sword more then the sword trusted him. And its scales rippled under his hand, in greeting.

He hadn't been expecting to really fight. He was only ready to whisper locations to his fellows. Twenty meters out, group one. Twenty five meters out, three meters to the left, group two. Twenty five meters out, eight meters to the right, group three.

In a burst of nerve pulses, all clouding his senses, the squad of his five teammates lurched forward, chakra in their feet preventing them from being heard. Drawn in to the killer intent, the need to attack and drive his enemies to death or to the ends of the earth, he moved without meaning to.

The air was silent until the swords moved.

Shinobi don't scream. The sounds of air escaping their ruptured throats make enough noise. Bones breaking. Blood hitting the ground. They need no screams.

The heartbeats and muscles were going blank as bodies hit the ground.

In a great swing of his sword, he caught a man by the chest, and Samehada shuddered as their energy was drained dry.

His comrade was too close to him, though. In one streak of a sword, a throat was cut, and he found his face splattered with blood.

He froze in his place, eyes wide and mouth open. The scent and taste and texture and sight were too much for him to handle. Kisame's nature was always half beast and half man. Blood was the one thing that tipped the delicate scale. He had to swallow his own saliva which seemed to be at odds with him.

His senses, reeling, everything around him was very very clear.

And yet his sight was tinted with red.

He saw someone, didn't know who, didn't care who, but he was at them, catching their arms with his.

They squirmed. Strength, even greater then his usual, rushed up from its sleep. He overpowered his target.

He forced them back, he leaned in close.

For a moment his jaws were wide, and he snapped them shut.

His jaws received a bit of pain when he crunched them together. Their dagger like shapes made biting down on nothing a real pain.

He found himself looking up at the ceiling of his house, and he realized he was simply back in his own bed, in a cold sweat with an elevated heartbeat.

With a noisy groan, he sat up, reaching out to grab at the digital clock that lay haphazardly near his futon. Four thiry in the morning. Faaantastic.

It had been the second night in that week he had woken himself up from dreams of the past war. He had been fifteen at the time…And not even one of the youngest deployed. Hah. But no reason to linger. His legs were restless, and he could not get back to sleep. Trying to work out the frantic chakra still running through him because of an imagined foe, he set off to walk the city of Kirigakure.

It was wonderfully dark, and the light from the infrequent streetlamps did not travel very far at all. Silence filled the deliciously wet air. Shinobi were diurnal, after all, and despite their regular missions in the dark of night, they were running on the same circadian rhythm of other human beings.

And although he had poor night vision, he knew the city like the back of his hand, and turned and turned until he reached the T and I headquarters.

There was a light on in the building so someone was still at work. So, it seemed he had made a generalization, then. Not all Shinobi preferred daylight.

* * *

He wasn't entirely surprised to see that the young bingo book writer was the one who still lingered in the headquarters, filing away papers of past 'examinations' that had taken place in the facility. Although the young man wasn't permitted to access the confidential reports (and those were heavily sealed down in the basement) due to some commission or political arrangement he was allowed to use some of Kiri's knowledge to update his writings.

Kisame figured he wouldn't find much relevant information. Nearly ninety percent of those who had been 'processed' under Kiri's interrogators were dead by now. And those that were alive were likely to be placed in the confidential section. But with surprising dedication to his job, the bingo bookie went through every file in alphabetical order, jotting down notes on occasion. And it took a minute or so for him to realize Kisame was there.

He gave a start when he looked up at Kisame, who was leaning in the doorway. But oddly, he kept his voice steady when he greeted the other. "Ah. Hoshigaki sir. What are you doing up and about?"

He had to admire the kid. He had been adapting well to Mist Village. "I should ask the same to you. Aren't you up past your bedtime?" He was being condescending, but he was being playfully condescending. And the writer didn't seem to take offense to it.

"Yeah, but I got one of your comrades to give me some of your soldier pills'," he gave a large grin, "I haven't had to sleep in two days."

At this, Kisame immediately frowned. His comrades were drug peddlers, now? It wasn't as if there were any pills in Kirigakure that were secret and needed to be protected (at least none that could be referred to as 'soldier pills'), it was just that they really weren't meant for civilian consumption.

"What dosage did he give you?" he asked, crossing his arms.

The writer reached back behind him, procuring some small bottle of dark blue pills and tossing it at Kisame. The Shinobi examined it, and his frown deepened.

"You need to stop taking these. They'll make your blood vessels rupture. You've been experiencing an elevated heart rate?"

Giving an all too jittery nod, the young man's grin faded, "I also have something else for you, by the way, Hoshigaki sir," Kisame would have cracked some remark about him being overtly eager to change the subject, but the offering of another item stole his interest, "I had intended to give it to you in the morning, but apparently you came earlier than I scheduled."

Oh. Goody goody. Sounded important.

"Some of the fishermen of the village came by and specifically requested that you come take a look at something for them. You know those guys?"

Seriousness faded away and Kisame's typical smile made its grand return, "Of course I do. I've got family down at the ports."

The writer offered him a manila folder, "They said they knew how busy you could be, so they actually wrote things up in a mission offering. You wanna finally earn your keep?"

The blue skinned man gave a pause, at that, his hand half outstretched. At once, a scornful voice came to mind, half in a sneer, half in anger.

_You are just so afraid to leave your little scrap of security, aren't you? I can see now why you left your place on the battlefield for a god dammed office job._

It had been a long while since Kisame had attempted a mission. It'd been a long time since he had really done anything becoming of a Shinobi. No wonder he had so much excess aggression and he fought in his dreams.

* * *

The docks were coated in a white, muffling morning mist. The vapor in the air distorted the sound of his footsteps over the wood beneath him. And there was a constant sloshing of waves on the rocks. The fishing vessels, the biggest of which was nearly twenty meters long, were barely visible through the mist. They were all inactive, which was odd for this time of day. Typically the fishermen would have left port by now… He approached the one story fishery building flanking the shore, only to see that his 'employers' were waiting for him.

"Kisame!" Two men in raincoats and large boots greeted him with open arms and voices loud enough to boom through the air. The other workers were roused by the greeting, and came forth to meet him as well.

It was a warm, welcome sort of experience, even if his eyes were drooping from the lack of sleep and he had that upset stomach sort of feel as well. After a needlessly long greeting filled with "I'm good,"s and hearty slaps on the back, he was ushered into the building.

There, he noted something was rather… off.

The back of the facility was filled with bins of ice that were generally used for short term storage before the catches were packaged to be sent around the island country and exported. But these bins were empty. They were filled with ice, as usual, (albeit a bit less than the norm) but he could not see a single fish in the entire room.

"So, Kisame—" the man who captained the largest vessel addressed him with the same cheerfulness in his voice, "How has the ninja-ing been working out for you?"

Thoughts clearly on other things, he could only give a blank reply, "As well as it always has. Sir, why exactly have you given me a mission?"

The group immediately sombered up, going quiet and smiles fading. The lead man gave a sweeping gesture at the empty storage behind him.

"As you can see, Kisame, the fish have gone."

He frowned at that, not understanding exactly what the other was meaning, "Your stock got stolen?"

Another of the group shook his head, "No, Kisame sir. We mean all the fish are gone. The ocean here is empty."

That took him a while to take in, comprehending their statements and the empty bins. The first thing that resulted was a logical disbelief. "There can't be a complete absence of fish. They're moving past here since its freezing up north. The waters should be occupied, if not satisfyingly _teeming_."

"Don't you think we know that, Kisame-sir? But we've ran a net through the entire bay two times, and there are no fish in the water!"

"They can't all be gone." He repeated, crossing his arms over his chest, "If you all want, I'll dive down there and get a fish myself."

The group seemed to gather together and the fishmen whispered amongst each other before finally looking back to him.

"Alright, Kisame sir. Go get us a fish."

* * *

He felt wildly silly on that misty morning, standing poised over the wooden docks, shed down to his undergarments and a fishnet shirt. Samehada leaned calmly against the wall of the fishery behind him. The water below him sloshed quaintly, clear as it had always been. But there were no flashes of silver scales as far as he could see, which was for the most part, unusual. Small fish often lingered around the docks, too small and bony to interest any fishermen but enough to attract some eager predators.

The emptiness of the water put him at an unease.

But there were fish in the water, he told himself, he just couldn't see them from where he was. He bent his knees and leapt in a low arc, his arms before him. He pierced the water and delved into it. The salty water was cold, biting, the sensations striking ever inch of him as the temperature suddenly registered. But at the same time, the wet, floating feeling of being underwater put him at into a soft calm. At contentment, really. It was his natural element.

And he didn't believe what his well adapted eyes were seeing.

All around him the rocks and the algae and the seaweed and the barnacles remained. A simple and healthy habitat. Yet there were no fish anywhere in sight. Not even tiny ones darting amongst the rocks.

And he searched. With wide, stroking arm movements, he swam faster than a sailfish. Covering several hundred meters of water in a matter of seconds, he stroked out into open ocean and circled a few times, before returning back to the docks.

He came empty handed.

They saw the expression on his face as he pulled himself back up to land, and that was enough to tell of his unsuccessful dive.

"So, Kisame sir…" the young man in heavy boots and trawler's pants approached again. "You see, there aren't any fish."

Kisame put his hand to his forehead, his wet hair sticking to his face, and rubbed his temples, "Do you have any idea _why_?"

* * *

"A sea monster? Like what, a giant squid?"

The boat bobbed up and down as it sped over the water, the motor a constant whirr in their ears. Sea monsters were not actually creatures of myth to fishermen, but merely a blanket term to really big nautical creatures. After all, fishing could be quite a hazard due to the terrors of the ocean. Whales large enough to be islands, lobsters as a big as men, eels thirty meters long, to say nothing of the giant predators that often lurked in the water. Sure, specimen such as the giant squid (A dead one was once caught that measured over a hundred meters long. It was longer then the boat bearing it. Its eye alone was half a meter across) were rare and far between, due to the human settlements on Water country's shores. Occasionally one would enter the gulf, wreaking havoc and putting the local population into a panic. But in those instances, Kirigakure would be alerted and a squad would be dispatched to chase off or dispose of the animal. A fisherman would want to inform the village of such a threat. But instead, they had only requested him personally, without addressing the village or even giving him the real 'mission'.

"No. Not like a giant squid. It wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before." The supposed witness was a man well past his prime, with a stout black beard graying near his chin and a characteristic yellow poncho that helped keep some parts of him dry when the waves out in open ocean got wild (as they often did). "It was like an island, and it moved very quickly. It hadn't noticed me, and I'm glad it didn't. It gave off a very foul air. Not that it smelled bad—it didn't really have a smell, 'sfar as I could tell, other than a sort of grimy smell--but just that something wasn't right about it."

"So, you're taking me to where you saw it, then?"

"Y-yeah, out by the reefs not so far from here, where there's the drop off."

The water got surprisingly deep over near there, providing an extensive variety of ocean life. The smaller, more colorful fishes that flocked near the aquatic flora mingled and adapted to the larger sport fish that inhabited the deeper seas. It was really more of an aesthetic attraction more than a fishing site. But occasionally large schools would flock there during their annual migrations, and during those a vessel would check every now and then to see if they'd drop by.

"So what did it look—ah." It felt like something had just stung him, right above the right eyebrow. It was a jolting little bit of pain, one that cut him off mid-sentence. Placing his hand over the spot, he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There was a buzzing noise in his head, lingering over his thoughts like a foul veil of smoke. And all about him he felt a vague anxiety, like he was in some sort of danger.

"Are you alright, Kisame sir?"

"Yeah, I must just be having a migraine or something. So what did it look like?"

As the fisherman opened his mouth to speak, the buzzing intensified, to the point it felt like something was shrieking into his ears. He didn't much hear the description, his senses stinging all over.

What anxiety was coursing through his frame… it suddenly occurred to him just what he was feeling. Killer intent.

His guard rose as quickly as he understood what it was. Out here in the ocean, on a fishing vessel, he was sensing killer intent. Intent from someone powerful.

Now everyone in the boat with him noticed his behavior, that spreading cringe across his face.

"Kisame sir, you don't look so well…"

It was really impossible for an enemy shinobi to be out here, in Kiri's water territory, not in this current peace time. Not only that, but no one could get that close without being detected by his senses. So what was causing this sensation?

"...I think I'm having a war flashback." His tone was slightly awed, despite how much he was gritting his teeth.

"Tch," The captain of the ship shook his head, a look of bitter concern on his face, "You're much too young to be having a flashback, Kisame."

"I know, but I'm feeling that—"

An exclamation broke the attention away from himself. The spotter, who sat near the bow of the ship and pointed out approaching schools of fish, was gesturing all around them.

"Captain! Look at the water around us. It's gotten unusually dark."

Gazes traveled to the water around them, some of the crew leaned over the sides to peer downwards.

It was peculiar. Under the boat, there was a patch of darkened water that spread out some seventy meters on all sides. And since they did not pass over it, it was moving… roughly at the same speed they were.

"This is around the spot where I saw the sea monster, Kisame…" The witness murmured, the statement fading into the air.

…moving.

"Stop the motor." He barked, turning to the young man currently controlling it.

To the group's collective shock, the dark patch below them kept moving, swimming until it was several hundred meters in front of them. The shock magnified when the shape suddenly halted.

Killer intent. A sea monster. The disappearance of the fish. It was becoming clear to him what this creature was, even if he could hardly think through the buzzing in his ears.

"Turn the ship around and get right back to shore. If I don't return to you in less than an hour, you will report to the Mizukage and tell him there is a threat within Kirigakure's borders." With a jump that did not so much as jostle the boat, he was out of the vessel and landing upon the ocean's surface.

They gave protests in response to that, which was understandable, of course, "A threat…?" "What sort of threat?"

The fear in his body and the killer intent making his fists clench did little to allow him to think clearly. But he was certain about one thing, he had to make this creature go away, he had to protect everyone from it.

"Go, _now_!" He bellowed back, the urgency in his voice finally making the fishers comply.

Samehada was reeling, it could sense it too, it had always been able to sense it. His sword was warning him, shuddering under the bandages.

As he heard (with some relief) the boat's motor slowly drown into the distance, the water over the dark shape was abruptly bulging, and the darkness fading into bizarre colors.

The creature was surfacing.

It was like nothing he had ever seen before. It was like… a building, as intricate and large as a building. Only it was moving, and had a face. Water sloughed off its many scales, sliding down the many diagonals of its frame. Its mouth was strange, jagged teeth comprising crude jaws. Behind its bulk, three flat, jointed tails curved and waved, dipping in and out of the water.

Its eyes, rotating and bulging like a chameleons, seemed unfocused. Until the beast realized Kisame was there, eyes swiveling to turn black pupils his way.

The fetid, violent sense of killer intent he had been feeling up until that point was nothing compared to what he felt then. It was oppressive, it was cruel, and it was mindless. It wasn't like a shinobi's killer intent, he realized that now. A shinobi's killer intent was focused. You were a threat to be taken out, or you were the target, the enemy.

This beast did not want to kill him because of anything he was or had ever done.

It wanted to kill anyone, anything, and it wanted to kill Kisame just because he was there.

And he couldn't move. Not as the creature looked at him, realizing where he was and that he existed for it to desire to destroy even more.

So he didn't see the two men coming up from behind until they were right beside him.

It happened in the same instant. A loud tearing something shot into his line of view. A wind jutsu. It hit the three tailed beast with noticeable impact, its huge frame being knocked backwards, a noticeable dent appearing on its... shell.

Footsteps and the two shinobi came up on either side of him. He heard the snapping of their cloaks whipping in their movement, felt their chakra aiding their speed. And he saw their strange uniforms--red cloud shapes on a backdrop of black--before abruptly they were ahead of him, and running towards the tails beast.

* * *

_A/N: Oh lord, you all must forgive me. I've had this chapter stewing over in my word documents for some time, half finished and kind of crappy._

_It probably starts off sounding like a filler episode, but trust me, its not._

_I do hope to be better with my next update, which will conclude this event and introduce the Kaguya. Thank you for all who've had such patience with me!_


End file.
